Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Splendidly. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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