I cannot say that I liked his looks or was greatly attracted by him.
He was not prepossessing. Fair, with a flaccid unwholesome complexion,
foxy haired, his beard cut to a point, small moustaches curled upward
showing thin pale lips, and giving his mouth a disagreeable curve also
upwards, a sort of set smile that was really a sardonic sneer,
conveying distrust and disbelief in all around. His eyes were so deep
set as to be almost lost in their recesses behind his sandy eyelashes,
and he kept them screwed up close, with the intent watchful gaze of an
animal about to make a spring. His whole aspect, his shifty, restless
manner, his furtive looks, all were antipathetic and to his great
advantage. I did not take to him at all, and plainly showed him that
I had no desire for his talk or his company.

It was not easy to shake him off, however. He would take no offence; I
was cold to positive rudeness, I snubbed him unmercifully; I did not
answer his remarks or his questions, which were incessant and
shamelessly inquisitorial. Nothing disconcerted him. I had all but
shut the door of my compartment in his face, but it suddenly occurred
to me that he was capable of wandering on, and when he found the
ladies inflicting his greasy attentions upon them.

I felt that I had better submit to his unpalatable society than let
him bore Mrs. Blair with his colossal impudence.

How right I was in this became at once apparent. He had taken out a
cigar-case and pressed one upon me with such pertinacious, offensive
familiarity that I could see no way out of it than by saying
peremptorily: