Her uncle Macomer was not always good-tempered and he was never considerate.  He was a stiff man, of impenetrable face, much older than his wife, cold when he was pleased, and harsh as rough ice when he was annoyed; a tall, bony man, with flattened lips, from which the grey moustaches and the beard were brushed smoothly away in all directions.  He had very small eyes—­a witty enemy of his said they were so small that one could not find them in his face, and those who knew him laughed at the jest, for they always seemed hard to find when one wished to meet them.  His shoulders were unusually high and narrow, but he did not stoop.  On the contrary, he habitually threw back his head, with a certain coldly aggressive stiffness, so that he easily looked above the person with whom he was talking.  Though he had never been given to any sort of bodily exercise, his hands were naturally horny, and they were almost always cold.  For the rest, he was careful of his appearance and scrupulous in matters of dress, like many of his fellow-countrymen.  In his household he insisted upon a neatness as fastidious as his own, and nothing could have induced him to employ a Neapolitan servant.  His family colours were green and black, and the green of his servants’ liveries was of the very darkest that could be had.

He imposed his taste upon his household, and gave it a certain marked respectability which betrayed no information about his fortune.  To all appearances he was not poor; but it would have been impossible to say with certainty whether he were rich or only in moderate circumstances.  He was undoubtedly more careful than ninety-nine out of a hundred of his fellow-citizens, in getting the value of what he spent, to the uttermost splitting of farthings; and when he spoke of money there was a certain cruel hardening of the hard lines in his face, which Veronica never failed to notice with dislike.  She wondered how her aunt could have led an apparently tranquil life with such a man during more than twenty years.

Doubtless, she thought, Bosio’s presence acted as a palliative in the somewhat grim atmosphere of the Palazzo Macomer.  He was utterly different from his brother.  In the first place, he was gentle and kind in speech and manner, though apparently rather sad than gay.  He was different in face, in figure, in voice, in carriage—­having quiet brown eyes, and brown hair only streaked with grey, with a full, silky beard; a clear pale complexion; in frame shorter than Gregorio, with smaller bones, slightly inclined to stoutness, but rather graceful than stiff; small feet and well-shaped hands of pleasant texture; a clear, low voice that never jarred upon the ear, and a kindly, half-sad laugh in which there was a singular refinement, of the sort which shows itself more in laughter than in speech.  Laughter is, indeed, a terrible betrayer of the character, and a surer guide in judgment than most people know.  For men learn to use their voices skilfully and to govern their tones as well as their words; but, beyond not laughing too loud for ordinary decency of behaviour, there are few people who care, or realize, how they laugh; and those who do, and who, being aware that there is room for improvement, endeavour to improve, very generally produce either a semi-musical noise, which is false and affected, or a perfectly inane cachinnation which has nothing human in it at all.