Washer passed his hand over his pale chaps: his smile had never wavered; he looked like one for ever lost in the making of an epigram.
The punching theorist stretched his body, holding the books level with his shoulders, as though to stone his hearers with his point of view. His face grew paler, his fine eyes finer, his lips ironical. Almost painful was this combination of the “strong” man and the student who was bound to go to pieces if you hit him a smart blow.
“As for forgiving faithless wives,” he said, “and all that sort of thing, I don't believe in sentiment.”
The words were high-pitched and sarcastic. Shelton looked hastily around. All their faces were complacent. He grew red, and suddenly remarked, in a soft; clear voice:
“I see!”
He was conscious that he had never before made an impression of this sort, and that he never would again. The cold hostility flashing out all round was most enlightening; it instantly gave way to the polite, satirical indulgence peculiar to highly-cultivated men. Crocker rose nervously; he seemed scared, and was obviously relieved when Shelton, following his example, grasped the little fat man's hand, who said good-night in a voice shaken by tobacco.
“Who are your unshaven friends?” he heard as the door was closed behind them.