Imprimis, there was not very much of her—­five feet three, at the most; and hers was the well-groomed modern type that implies a grandfather or two and is in every respect the antithesis of that hulking Venus of the Louvre whom people pretend to admire.  Item, she had blue eyes; and when she talked with you, her head drooped forward a little.  The frank, intent gaze of these eyes was very flattering and, in its ultimate effect, perilous, since it led you fatuously to believe that she had forgotten there were any other trousered beings extant.  Later on you found this a decided error.  Item, she had a quite incredible amount of yellow hair, that was not in the least like gold or copper or bronze—­I scorn the hackneyed similes of metallurgical poets—­but a straightforward yellow, darkening at the roots; and she wore it low down on her neck in great coils that were held in place by a multitude of little golden hair-pins and divers corpulent tortoise-shell ones.  Item, her nose was a tiny miracle of perfection; and this was noteworthy, for you will observe that Nature, who is an adept at eyes and hair and mouths, very rarely achieves a creditable nose.  Item, she had a mouth; and if you are a Gradgrindian with a taste for hairsplitting, I cannot swear that it was a particularly small mouth.  The lips were rather full than otherwise; one saw in them potentialities of heroic passion, and tenderness, and generosity, and, if you will, temper.  No, her mouth was not in the least like the pink shoe-button of romance and sugared portraiture; it was manifestly designed less for simpering out of a gilt frame or the dribbling of stock phrases over three hundred pages than for gibes and laughter and cheery gossip and honest, unromantic eating, as well as another purpose, which, as a highly dangerous topic, I decline even to mention.

There you have the best description of Margaret Hugonin that I am capable of giving you.  No one realises its glaring inadequacy more acutely than I.

Furthermore, I stipulate that if in the progress of our comedy she appear to act with an utter lack of reason or even common-sense—­as every woman worth the winning must do once or twice in a lifetime—­that I be permitted to record the fact, to set it down in all its ugliness, nay, even to exaggerate it a little—­all to the end that I may eventually exasperate you and goad you into crying out, “Come, come, you are not treating the girl with common justice!”

For, if such a thing were possible, I should desire you to rival even me in a liking for Margaret Hugonin.  And speaking for myself, I can assure you that I have come long ago to regard her faults with the same leniency that I accord my own.

II

We begin on a fine May morning in Colonel Hugonin’s rooms at Selwoode, which is, as you may or may not know, the Hugonins’ country-place.  And there we discover the Colonel dawdling over his breakfast, in an intermediate stage of that careful toilet which enables him later in the day to pass casual inspection as turning forty-nine.