Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/52

42 struck me as the face of one of those oldish-looking young Americans who begin to worry over things too early in life and get a sprinkling of gray over the ears while their eyes are still young. For his eyes were still young, young and eager, though the rest of his face looked tired and his smile was a half-cynical one. There was just a touch of disdain about his eyebrows, too, though you forgot that in the humor of his smile. He made that humor, I think, a kind of armor, as though he wanted to laugh at himself before you got a chance to laugh at him. And he had a funny little trick of holding back what he was about to say, for a second or two, as though he might be giving his brain time to work before he let his mental ponies trot out into the ring of talk. His lips would pucker up a little, as he did this, in a way that made you think of a kid. But that lean jaw and that straight mouth with just the tiniest twist at the end soon told you he could be strong enough, when the strain came. He had a way of looking at you critically, yet quizzically, though he made me feel that he'd be honest before he'd be kind-hearted. He gave me the impression, even then, that he was expecting a great deal from his possible friends, that it might hurt him a lot if you didn't live up to his expectations, and that in