15
wife, and he looked more as I had expected him to look. The prominent bones of his face gave him a rather military air; a broad, rugged forehead, high cheek-bones, a high nose, slightly arched. His eyes, however, were dark and soft, curious in shape—exactly like half-moons—and he wore a limp, drooping moustache, like an Englishman. There was something about him that suggested personal bravery, magnanimity, and a fine, generous way of doing things.
“I am late,” he explained, “because I had some difficulty in dressing. I couldn’t find my things.”
His wife looked concerned for a moment, and then began to laugh softly. “Poor Oswald! You were looking for your new dress shirts that bulge in front. Well, you needn’t! I gave them to the janitor’s son.”
“The janitor’s son?”
“Yes. To Willy Bunch, at home. He’s probably wearing one to an Iroquois ball to-night, and that’s the right place for it.”
