Between his teeth he gripped the stump
of a burnt-out cigar. A tiny spaniel lay beside the fire, his beady
black eyes following the nervous movements of the master of the house.
At the age of forty-five Monte Irvin was not ill-looking, and, indeed,
was sometimes spoken of as handsome. His figure was full without being
corpulent; his well-groomed black hair and moustache and fresh if
rather coarse complexion, together with the dignity of his upright
carriage, lent him something of a military air. This he assiduously
cultivated as befitting an ex-Territorial officer, although as he had
seen no active service he modestly refrained from using any title of
rank.
Some quality in his brilliant smile, an oriental expressiveness of the
dark eyes beneath their drooping lids, hinted a Semitic strain; but it
was otherwise not marked in his appearance, which was free from
vulgarity, whilst essentially that of a successful man of affairs.
In fact, Monte Irvin had made a success of every affair in life with
the lamentable exception of his marriage. Of late his forehead had
grown lined, and those business friends who had known him for a man of
abstemious habits had observed in the City chophouse at which he
lunched almost daily that whereas formerly he had been a noted
trencherman, he now ate little but drank much.
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