Mr. Browne, on the other hand, is a very different personage.  Of medium height, closely knit, with the latent activity and grace of the cat flowing through every movement and even stagnating in his pose, he is a man that the first casual gaze instantly returns to with sharpened focus.  You have seen gymnasts whose normal movements were slowly performed springs, just as rust is a slow combustion and fire the same thing in less time.  Well, Clinton Browne strongly suggested that sort of athlete.  Add to this a regularly formed, clearly cut, and all-but-beautiful face, with a pair of wonderfully piercing, albeit somewhat shifty, black eyes, and one need not marvel that men as well as women stared at him.  I have spoken of his gaze as “somewhat shifty,” yet am not altogether sure that in that term I accurately describe it.  What first fastened my attention was this vague, unfocussed, roving, quasi-introspective vision flashing with panther-like suddenness into a directness that seemed to burn and pierce one like the thrust of a hot stiletto, His face was clean-shaven, save for a mere thumb-mark of black hair directly under the centre of his lower lip.  This Iago-like tab and the almost fierce brilliancy of his concentrated gaze gave to his countenance at times a sinister, Machiavellian expression that was irresistible and which, to my thinking, seriously marred an otherwise fine face.  Of course due allowance must be made for the strong prejudice I have against any form of beard.  However, I’d wager a box of my best liver-pills against any landscape Browne ever painted, —­I don’t care if it’s as big as a cyclorama,—­that if he had known how completely Gwen shared my views,—­how she disliked the appearance of bewhiskered men,—­that delicately nurtured little imperial would soon have been reduced to a tender memory,—­that is to say, if a physician can diagnose a case of love from such symptoms as devouring glances and an attentiveness so marked that it quite disgusted Maitland, who repeatedly measured his rival with the apparent cold precision of a mathematician, albeit there was warmth enough underneath.

This singular self-poise is one of Maitland’s most noticeable characteristics and is, I think, rather remarkable in a man of such strong emotional tendencies and lightning-like rapidity of thought.  No doubt some small portion of it is the result of acquirement, for life can hardly fail to teach us all something of this sort; still I cannot but think that the larger part of it is native to him.  Born of well-to-do parents, he had never had the splendid tuition of early poverty.  As soon as he had left college he had studied law, and had been admitted to the bar.  This he had done more to gratify the wishes of his father than to further any desires of his own, but he had soon found the profession, so distasteful to him that he practically abandoned it in favour of scientific research.  True, he still occasionally took a legal case when it turned upon scientific points