We had expected 'him' to be
offensive, and he wasn't. He was, quite simply, insignificant. He was
a South American, a Brazilian, a member of the School of Mines: a
poor, undersized, pale, spiritless, apologetic creature, with rather a
Teutonic-looking name, Ernest Mayer. His father, or uncle, was
Minister of Agriculture, or Commerce, or something, in his native
land; and he himself was attached in some nominal capacity to the
Brazilian Legation, in the Rue de Teheran, whence, on state occasions,
he enjoyed the privilege of enveloping his meagre little person in a
very gorgeous diplomatic uniform. He was beardless, with vague
features, timid, light-blue eyes, and a bluish, anaemic skin. In manner
he was nervous, tremulous, deprecatory--perpetually bowing, wriggling,
stepping back to let you pass, waving his hands, palms outward, as if
to protest against giving you trouble. And in speech--upon my word, I
don't think I ever heard him compromise himself by any more dangerous
assertion than that the weather was fine, or he wished you good-day.
For the most part he listened mutely, with a nickering, perfunctory
smile. From time to time, with an air of casting fear behind him and
dashing into the imminent, deadly breach, he would hazard an 'Ah,
oui,' or a 'Pas mal.' For the rest, he played the piano prettily
enough, wrote colourless, correct French verse, and was reputed to be
an industrious if not a brilliant student--what we called _un
serieux_.
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