Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman, nor a fencer—­he had never had time for these amusements—­and he was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain forms of indigestion.  He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped the night before his visit to the Louvre at the Cafe Anglais—­some one had told him it was an experience not to be omitted—­and he had slept none the less the sleep of the just.  His usual attitude and carriage were of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when under a special inspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on parade.  He never smoked.  He had been assured—­such things are said—­that cigars were excellent for the health, and he was quite capable of believing it; but he knew as little about tobacco as about homeopathy.  He had a very well-formed head, with a shapely, symmetrical balance of the frontal and the occipital development, and a good deal of straight, rather dry brown hair.  His complexion was brown, and his nose had a bold well-marked arch.  His eye was of a clear, cold gray, and save for a rather abundant mustache he was clean-shaved.  He had the flat jaw and sinewy neck which are frequent in the American type; but the traces of national origin are a matter of expression even more than of feature, and it was in this respect that our friend’s countenance was supremely eloquent.  The discriminating observer we have been supposing might, however, perfectly have measured its expressiveness, and yet have been at a loss to describe it.  It had that typical vagueness which is not vacuity, that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of being committed to nothing in particular, of standing in an attitude of general hospitality to the chances of life, of being very much at one’s own disposal so characteristic of many American faces.  It was our friend’s eye that chiefly told his story; an eye in which innocence and experience were singularly blended.  It was full of contradictory suggestions, and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero of romance, you could find in it almost anything you looked for.  Frigid and yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positive yet skeptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligent and extremely good-humored, there was something vaguely defiant in its concessions, and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve.  The cut of this gentleman’s mustache, with the two premature wrinkles in the cheek above it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposed shirt-front and a cerulean cravat played perhaps an obtrusive part, completed the conditions of his identity.  We have approached him, perhaps, at a not especially favorable moment; he is by no means sitting for his portrait.  But listless as he lounges there, rather baffled on the aesthetic question, and guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered it to be) of confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work (for he admires the squinting Madonna of the young lady with the boyish coiffure, because he thinks the young lady herself uncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance.  Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within his call; he is evidently a practical man, but the idea in his case, has undefined and mysterious boundaries, which invite the imagination to bestir itself on his behalf.