This man was smoking cigarettes in
that kind of furious sucking way which is characteristic of great
smokers. Much smoking, however, had not dried up his skin to the
consistence of blotting paper and to the colour of tobacco ash as it
does in some cases, but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from his
face like perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexion
of a yellow green colour, something like a vegetable marrow. Although
his face was as hairless as a woman's, there was not a feature in it
that was not masculine. Although his cheek-bones were high and his
jaw was of the mould which we so often associate with the
prizefighter, he looked as if he might somehow be a gentleman. And
when I got for a moment a full view of his face as he turned round, I
thought it showed power and intelligence, although his forehead
receded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to the bone
above the eyes. Power and intelligence too were seen in every glance
of his dark bright eyes. In a few minutes Wilderspin's name was again
uttered by this man, and I found he was telling anecdotes of the
eccentric painter--telling them with great gusto and humour, in a
loud voice, quite careless of being overheard by me.
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