Mr. Hopkins stayed the play of his squared elbows and glanced
inquiringly at his daughter's face. There was a pretty animation in it,
as she pointed to a figure that had just entered. It was that of a young
man attired in the extravagance rather than the taste of the prevailing
fashion, which did not, however, in the least conceal a decided
rusticity of limb and movement. A long mustache, which looked unkempt,
even in its pomatumed stiffness, and lank, dark hair that had bent but
never curled under the barber's iron, made him notable even in that
heterogeneous assembly.
"That's he," whispered Phoebe.
"Who?" said her father.
Alas for the inconsistencies of love! The blush came with the name and
not the vision.
"Mr. Hooker," she stammered.
It was, indeed, Jim Hooker. But the role of his exaggeration was no
longer the same; the remorseful gloom in which he had been habitually
steeped had changed into a fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more
in keeping with his fashionable garments. He was more peaceful, yet not
entirely placable, and, as he sat down at a side table and pulled down
his striped cuffs with his clasped fingers, he cast a glance of critical
disapproval on the general company. Nevertheless, he seemed to be
furtively watchful of his effect upon them, and as one or two whispered
and looked towards him, his consciousness became darkly manifest.
All of which might have intimidated the gentle Phoebe, but did not
discompose her father.
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