He was a man of moderate height, youthful in build, but old of face, upon which there sat always a smirk of satisfaction.

He was of those whom no beauty in others, no grace, no sweetness, could greatly impress, so filled was he with self-complacency.

He had no time to admire, since always he felt that he was being admired, and to adjust his pose, and to speak so that his words, carried to the right distance, occupied too much of his attention.
He seldom spoke to the person he talked with but generally to some other, a woman for choice, whom he believed to be listening to the important sentences he uttered.

For the rest, he had grown heavy in jaw and his face (a rather flat face in which were set a pair of sharp dark eyes) narrowed in toward the top of his head like a pear.
He bowed suavely to Sylvia, with the air of one showing to the room how a gentleman performed that ceremony, but took little note of her.
But Sylvia was determined not to be disappointed.
Her father took her by the elbow and turned her about.
"Mr.Hine." Sylvia was confronted with a youth who reddened under her greeting and awkwardly held out a damp coarse hand, a poor creature with an insipid face, coarse hair, and manner of great discomfort.

He was as tall as Parminter, but wore his good clothes with Sunday air, and having been introduced to Sylvia could find no word to say to her.
"Well, let us go in to supper," said her father, and he held open the door for her to pass.
Sylvia went into the dining-room across the narrow hall, where a cold supper was laid upon a round table.