entirely _there_, not concealing or repressing anything, but bending
his whole mind upon what was being said. Moreover, if you said anything
personal or intimate to him, a word of gratitude or pleasure, he had a
quick, beautiful, affectionate look, so rewarding, so embracing that I
often tried to evoke it--though an attempt to evoke it deliberately often
produced no more than a half-smile, accompanied by a little wink, as if he
saw through the attempt.

His great soft white hands, always spotlessly clean--he was the
cleanest-looking man I ever saw--were really rather extraordinary. They
looked at first sight clumsy, and even limp; but he was unusually deft and
adroit with his fingers, and his touch on plants, in gardening, his tying
of strings--he liked doing up parcels--was very quick and delicate. He was
fond of all sorts of little puzzles, toys of wood and metal, which had to
be fitted together; and the puzzles took shape or fell to pieces under his
fingers like magic. They were extremely sensitive to pain, his hands, and a
little pinch or abrasion would cause him marked discomfort. His handwriting
was rapid and fine, and he occasionally would draw a tiny sketch to
illustrate something, which showed much artistic skill. He often deplored
his ignorance of handicraft, which, he said would have been a great relief
to him.

His voice, again, was remarkable. It was not in ordinary talk either deep
or profound, though it could and did become both on occasions, especially
when he made a quotation, which he did with some solemnity. I used at first
to think that there was a touch of rhetorical affectation about his
quotations. They were made in a high musical tone, and as often as not
ended with the tears coming into his eyes. He spoke to me once about this.
He said that it was a mistake to think he was _deeply_ affected by a
quotation. "In fact," he said, "I am not easily affected by passionate or