He was striding along in cap and knickerbockers, his curly hair still thick and golden on his temples, his clear skin flushed with exercise, his general physical aspect even more splendid than it had been in his first youth.

Beside him, the slender figure and pleasant irregular face of Herbert French would have been altogether effaced and eclipsed but for the Eton master's two striking points: prematurely white hair, remarkably thick and abundant; and very blue eyes, shy, spiritual and charming.
"I don't mind," Roger was saying, "if you think they'd have me.

Beastly bore, of course! But one's got to do something for one's keep." He looked round with a smile, slightly conscious.

The position he had occupied for some three years, of the idle and penniless husband dependent on his wife's dollars, was not, he knew, an exalted one in French's eyes.
"Oh! you'll find it quite tolerable," said French.

"Roads and schools do as well as anything else to break one's teeth on.