He was in dove-colored cloth, his coat very richly laced with gold, his waistcoat--of white brocade with jeweled buttons, the flower-pattern outlined in finest gold thread--descended midway to his knees, whilst the ruffles at his wrists and the Steinkirk at his throat were of the finest point.

He cut a figure of supremest elegance, as he stood there, his chestnut head slightly bowed in deference as my Lady Mary spoke, his hat tucked under his arm, his right hand outstretched beside him to rest upon the gold head of his clouded-amber cane.
To the general he was a stranger still in town, and of the sort that draws the eye and provokes inquiry.

Lady Mary, the only goal of whose shallow existence was the attention of the sterner sex, who loved to break hearts as a child breaks toys, for the fun of seeing how they look when broken--and who, because of that, had succeeded in breaking far fewer than she fondly imagined--looked up into his face with the "most perditiously alluring" eyes in England--so Mr.Craske, the poet, who stood at her elbow now, had described them in the dedicatory sonnet of his last book of poems.

(Wherefore, in parenthesis be it observed, she had rewarded him with twenty guineas, as he had calculated that she would.) There was a sudden stir in the group.

Mr.Craske had caught sight of Lady Ostermore and Mistress Winthrop, and he fell to giggling, a flimsy handkerchief to his painted lips.