As Captain Poindexter looked upon the fringed hazel eyes, the drooping raven mustache, the clustering ringlets, and the Byronic full throat and turned-down collar of his friend, a smile of exhausted humorous tolerance and affectionate impatience curved his lips.

"Well, you _are_ a fool, aren't you ?" he apostrophized it half audibly.
He was standing before the picture as she entered.

Even in the trying contiguity of that peerless work he would have been called a fine-looking man.

As he advanced to greet her, it was evident that his military title was not one of the mere fanciful sobriquets of the locality.

In his erect figure and the disciplined composure of limb and attitude there were still traces of the refined academic rigors of West Point.