Here, then, was Arthur Noble, arrived.

He passed along the path below the lily-bed, and I saw him well.

He was a fine-looking fellow, sunburnt, like one who had seen foreign service, and handsome: physically handsomer than John, I could see, with more of the dash of gallantry and air of the grand gentleman, but with less of that something I have hinted at before, soul, spirituality--what shall I call it, my dears, to escape being smiled at?
You have known John Hollingford, and you will recognise the charm that I mean, something that--sick, or afflicted, or disfigured, or aged--must always make him lovable, and attract the pure of heart to his side.
Well, Arthur Noble was of a different stamp.

How he would have looked out of the sunshine of prosperity, I do not know; but he seemed made to be gilt by it from head to foot.

He had a pleasant face, sunny and frank, a high-bred, masterful air, and an amiable courtly manner.
Physically he had all the fine points of a Saxon hero, fair hair, blue eyes, powerful frame.