seem to me to be....

He paused, biting his pen. Had he one acquaintance who would not counsel
him to see a doctor for writing in that style? How would the world go
round, how could Society exist, without common-sense, practical ability,
and the lack of sympathy?

He looked out of the open window. Down in the street a footman was
settling the rug over the knees of a lady in a carriage, and the
decorous immovability of both their faces, which were clearly visible to
him, was like a portion of some well-oiled engine.

He got up and walked up and down. His rooms, in a narrow square skirting
Belgravia, were unchanged since the death of his father had made him a
man of means. Selected for their centrality, they were furnished in
a very miscellaneous way. They were not bare, but close inspection
revealed that everything was damaged, more or less, and there was
absolutely nothing that seemed to have an interest taken in it. His
goods were accidents, presents, or the haphazard acquisitions of a
pressing need. Nothing, of course, was frowsy, but everything was
somewhat dusty, as if belonging to a man who never rebuked a servant.
Above all, there was nothing that indicated hobbies.

Three days later he had her answer to his letter:

. . . I don't think I understand what you mean by "the healthier people
are, the more repulsive they seem to be"; one must be healthy to be
perfect, must n't one? I don't like unhealthy people. I had to play on
that wretched piano after reading your letter; it made me feel unhappy.
I've been having a splendid lot of tennis lately, got the back-handed