Judging from his look, London was the last place in the world that one would have imagined to be the scene of his activities: such a face surely could not be nourished amid smoke and mud and fog and dust; such an open countenance could never even have seen anything of 'the weariness, the fever, and the fret' of Babylon the Second.
His complexion was as fine as Elfride's own; the pink of his cheeks as delicate.

His mouth as perfect as Cupid's bow in form, and as cherry-red in colour as hers.

Bright curly hair; bright sparkling blue-gray eyes; a boy's blush and manner; neither whisker nor moustache, unless a little light-brown fur on his upper lip deserved the latter title: this composed the London professional man, the prospect of whose advent had so troubled Elfride.
Elfride hastened to say she was sorry to tell him that Mr.Swancourt was not able to receive him that evening, and gave the reason why.

Mr.Smith replied, in a voice boyish by nature and manly by art, that he was very sorry to hear this news; but that as far as his reception was concerned, it did not matter in the least.
Stephen was shown up to his room.

In his absence Elfride stealthily glided into her father's.
'He's come, papa.