"Colonel Quaritch, I believe," said, or rather shouted, the voice from
somewhere down the drive.
"Yes," answered the Colonel mildly, "here I am."
"Ah, I thought it was you. Always tell a military man, you know.
Excuse me, but I am resting for a minute, this last pull is an
uncommonly stiff one. I always used to tell my dear old friend, Mrs.
Massey, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit just here.
Well, here goes for it," and after a few heavy steps his visitor
emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset light which was
playing on the terrace before the house.
Colonel Quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the
great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a specimen of
humanity as he had seen for a long while. The man was old, as his
white hair showed, seventy perhaps, but that was the only sign of
decay about him. He was a splendid man, broad and thick and strong,
with a keen, quick eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and clean
shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as
aristocratic, a face, in fact, that showed both birth and breeding.
Indeed, as clothed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top
boots, his visitor stood leaning on his long stick and resting himself
after facing the hill, Harold Quaritch thought that he had never seen
a more perfect specimen of the typical English country gentleman--as
the English country gentleman used to be.
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