He has the same gray eyes as his daughter, although his are genial
rather than warm; and his eyes have the same trick of smiling. His
skin is pinker than hers, and his brows and lashes are fairer. But
he seems removed beyond passion, or even simple enthusiasm. Miss
West is firm, like her father; but there is warmth in her firmness.
He is clean, he is sweet and courteous; but he is coolly sweet,
coolly courteous. With all his certain graciousness, in cabin or on
deck, so far as his social equals are concerned, his graciousness is
cool, elevated, thin.
He is the perfect master of the art of doing nothing. He never
reads, except the Bible; yet he is never bored. Often, I note him in
a deck-chair, studying his perfect finger-nails, and, I'll swear, not
seeing them at all. Miss West says he loves the sea. And I ask
myself a thousand times, "But how?" He shows no interest in any phase
of the sea. Although he called our attention to the glorious sunset
I have just described, he did not remain on deck to enjoy it.
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