Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
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