He was fully seven feet in height, and his face was perfect. It was
the absolute image of Andrea del Sarto's painting of the young Saint
John. His eyes were immense, dark, and filled with a haunting sadness,
and his pale, patrician features and air of haut monde stamped him at
once as the descendant of a long line of aristocrats.
He wore a dress suit of the latest cut, but I noticed that he was
barefooted, and down from each side of his mouth trickled a dark brown
stream of tobacco juice.
On his head was an enormous Mexican sombrero. He wore no shirt, but
his dress coat, thrown back from his broad chest, revealed an enormous
scintillating diamond tied with a piece of twine strung into the
meshes of his gauze undershirt.
"My son, Aubrey; Miss Cook," said Mrs. DeVere languidly.
Mr. DeVere took a chew of tobacco from his mouth and tossed it behind
the piano.
"The lady who has kindly consented to assume our scholastic duties, I
presume," he said, in a deep musical baritone.