Upon the narrow pavement, and within the little entrance-way that led to the inner room, there bustled about important-looking men, some with hooked noses, most with florid faces and well-fed bodies, but all with a certain dignity and sobriety of expression.
Montague himself, young, smooth-faced, dark-eyed, of active frame, of mobile and pleasing features, sat at the head of a long table.

The high-strung quality of his nervous system was evidenced in his restless hands, his attitude frequently changed.
At the left of Montague sat Somers, lord keeper; older, of more steady demeanor, of fuller figure, of bold face and full light eye, a politician, not a ponderer.

At the right of Montague, grave, silent, impassive, now and again turning a contemplative eye about him, sat that great man.

Sir Isaac Newton, known then to every nobleman, and now to every schoolboy, of the world.

A gem-like mind, keen, clear, hard and brilliant, exact in every facet, and forsooth held in the setting of an iron body.