They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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