His was
a presence to hold the gaze. He was very tall and straight and slender,
yet most finely proportioned. The heavy hair, falling back from his
handsome face and tied in a queue, must once have been as black as
Ruth's own; surely, no paler shade could have become so silvery white.
His eyes, also, were as blue as hers, and none could have been bluer.
His skin was almost as fair and smooth as hers, his manner as gentle and
kind, his voice as soft and his smile as sweet. He was elegantly
dressed, as he always was, his fine long coat of forest green
broadcloth had a wide velvet collar and large gold buttons. His velvet
knee-breeches and the wide riband which tied his queue were of the same
rich shade of dark green. The most delicate ruffles filled the front of
his swan's-down vest and fell over his hands, which were remarkably
white and small and taper-fingered, like a fine lady's. His white silk
stockings and his low shoes were held by silver buckles. So looked
Philip Alston, Gentleman,--and so he was called,--as he stood in the
great room of Cedar House on that night of October, nearly a hundred
years ago.
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