The
expression natural to it was, I think, a low, vicious cunning; but his
features and little green eyes were so rigidly disciplined that, as a
rule, neither had any characteristic save utter vacuity. In his own line
he was perfect. No commission that could be intrusted to him would draw
from him a remark or a look of surprise. He executed precisely what he
was told, and fulfilled the minutest duties of his station
irreproachably, with a noiseless, feline activity. He was like the
war-horse of the Douglas:
"Though somewhat old,
Swift in his paces, cool, and bold."
He held a miniature-case in his hand as he entered. "Am I to put this
in, sir?" he asked, in the slow, measured voice that was habitual to
him.
His master gazed sharply at him, as if trying to detect a covert
sneer--it would have been safer to have stroked a rattlesnake's crest
than to have trifled with Livingstone just then--but Willis's face was
as innocent of any expression as a dead wall.
"Put it down, and go on with your packing; you have no time to spare."
The man laid the case on a marble table near, and went out.
Guy took the miniature and regarded it steadfastly for some moments,
then he looked up and caught my eye.
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