The hue of his
plentiful and curly hair, indistinguishable to Mary and Cynthia, now
stood revealed as neither black, nor red, nor auburn, nor brown, nor
golden, but just, and rather surprisingly, a plain yellow, the color of a
cowslip or thereabouts. Altogether rather a rum-looking fellow! This had
been Alec Naylor's first remark when the Rector of Sprotsfield pointed
him out, as a possible fourth, at the golf club, and the rough justice of
the description could not be denied. He, like Alec, bore his scars; the
little finger of his right hand was amputated down to the knuckle.
Yet, after all this description, in particularity if not otherwise worthy
of a classic novelist, the thing yet remains that most struck observers.
Mr. Hector Beaumaroy had an adorable candor of manner. He answered
questions with innocent readiness and pellucid sincerity. It would be
impossible to think him guilty of a lie; ungenerous to suspect so much as
a suppression of the truth. Even Mr. Naylor, hardened by five-and-thirty
years' experience of what sailors will blandly swear to in collision
cases, was struck with the open candor of his bearing.
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