at kind of person he is; not
handsome--you have confessed as much as that."

"Yes, Marian, I admit the painful fact. There are people who call John
Saltram ugly. But his face is not a common one; it is a very picturesque
kind of ugliness--a face that Velasquez would have loved to paint, I
think. It is a rugged, strongly-marked countenance with a villanously
dark complexion; but the eyes are very fine, the mouth perfection; and
there is a look of power in the face that, to my mind, is better than
beauty."

"And I think you owned that Mr. Saltram is hardly the most agreeable
person in the world."

"Well, no, he is not what one could well call an eminently agreeable
person. And yet he exercises a good deal of influence over the men he
knows, without admitting many of them to his friendship. He is very
clever; not a brilliant talker by any means, except on rare occasions,
when he chooses to give full swing to his powers; he does not lay himself
out for social successes; but he is a man who seems to know more of every
subject than the men about him. I doubt if he will ever succeed at the
Bar. He has so little perseverance or steadiness, and indulges in such an
erratic, desultory mode of life; but he has made his mark in literature
already, and I think he might become a great man if he chose. Whether he
ever will choose is a doubtful question."

"I am afraid he must be rather a dissipated, dangerous kind of person,"
said Marian.

"Well, yes, he is subject to occasional outbreaks of dissipation. They
don't last long, and they seem to leave not the faintest impression upon
his herculean constitution; but of course that sort of thing does more or
less injury to a man's mind, however comparatively harmless the form of
his dissipation may be. There are very few men whom John Saltram cannot
drink under the table, and rise with a steady brain himself when the
wassail is ended; yet I believe, in a general way, few men drink less
than he does. At cards he is equally strong; a past-master in all games
of skill; and the play is apt to be rather high at one or two of the
clubs he belongs to. He has a wonderful power of self-restraint when he
cares to exert it; will play six or seven hours every night for three
weeks at a stretch, and then not touch a card for six months. Poor old
John," said Gilbert Fenton, with a half-regretful sigh; "under happy
circumstances, he might be such a good man."

"But I fear he is a dangerous friend f