And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. Clifford Marsh presented himself.  Within the doorway he stood for a moment surveying the room; with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, and approached her just to shake hands; her three daughters received from him the same attention.  Words Mr. Marsh had none, but he smiled as smiles the man conscious of attracting merited observation.  Indeed, it was impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity.  His attire was very conventional in itself, but somehow did not look like the evening uniform of common men:  it sat upon him with an artistic freedom, and seemed the garb of a man superior to his surroundings.  The artist was slight, pale, rather feminine of feature; he had delicate hands, which he managed to display to advantage; his auburn hair was not long behind, as might have been expected, but rolled in a magnificent mass upon his brows.  Many were the affectations whereby his countenance rendered itself unceasingly interesting.  At times he wrinkled his forehead down the middle, and then smiled at vacancy—­a humorous sadness; or his eyes became very wide as he regarded, yet appeared not to see, some particular person; or his lips drew themselves in, a symbol of meaning reticence.  All this, moreover, not in such degrees as to make him patently ridiculous; by no means.  Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw might exchange frequent glances, and have a difficulty in preserving decorum; but they were unsophisticated.  Mrs. Lessingham smiled, indeed, when there came a reasonable pretext, but not contemptuously.  Mr. Marsh’s aspect, if anything, pleased her; she liked these avoidances of the commonplace.  Cecily did not fail to inspect the new arrival.  She too was well aware that hatred of vulgarity constrains many persons who are anything but fools to emphasize their being in odd ways, and it might still—­in spite of the impressionist water-colours—­be proved that Mr. Marsh had a right to vary from the kindly race of men.  She hoped he was really a person of some account; it delighted her to be with such.  And then she suspected that Madeline Denyer had something more than friendship for Mr. Marsh, and her sympathies were moved.

“What sort of weather did you leave in England?” Mrs. Denyer inquired, when the artist was seated next to her.

“I came away from London on the third day of absolute darkness,” replied Mr. Marsh, genially.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Gluck; and at once translated this news for the benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who murmured, “Ach!” and shook her head.

“The fog is even yet in my throat,” proceeded the artist, to whom most of the guests were listening.  “I can still see nothing but lurid patches of gaslight on a background of solid mephitic fume.  There are fine effects to be caught, there’s no denying it; but not every man has the requisite physique for such studies.  As I came along here from the railway-station, it occurred to me that the Dante story might have been repeated in my case; the Neapolitans should have pointed at me and whispered, ’Behold the man who has been in hell!’”