Peter Hope was tall and thin, clean-shaven but for a pair of side whiskers close-cropped and terminating just below the ear, with hair of the kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as “getting a little thin on the top, sir,” but arranged with economy, that everywhere is poverty’s true helpmate.  About Mr. Peter Hope’s linen¹, which was white though somewhat frayed², there was a self-assertiveness³ that invariably arrested the attention of even the most casual observer.  Decidedly there was too much of it—its ostentation⁴ aided and abetted⁵ by the retiring nature of the cut-away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and disappear behind its owner’s back.  “I’m a poor old thing,” it seemed to say.  “I don’t shine—or, rather, I shine too much among these up-to-date young modes.  I only hamper⁷ you.  You would be much more comfortable without me.”  To persuade it to accompany him, its proprietor⁸ had to employ force, keeping fastened the lowest of its three buttons.  At every step, it struggled for its liberty.  Another characteristic of Peter’s, linking him to the past, was his black silk cravat⁹, secured by a couple of gold pins chained together.  Watching him as he now sat writing, his long legs encased in tightly strapped¹⁰ grey trousering, crossed beneath the table, the lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon the shapely hand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger might have rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus found himself in presence seemingly of some young beau belonging to the early ’forties; but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles.

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