Professor Symonds looked handsome; that was because he was sitting down. His nose was large, but well shaped. Perhaps, after reflecting somewhat, I should say it was a bit too long. His forehead was just an ordinary forehead. But his eyes--let me see, they were of an indescribable color, and his lashes were very long--either long or his eyes were deeply set. I think it was both that gave me the impression. You see I was only sent to interview him and I tried not to stare. Besides it was his mouth that I wanted to look at, and in fact I am conscious now of having looked too hard, but his mouth was decidedly crooked. When he laughed it was more so, but his teeth were large, white and straight. So on the whole it did not detract from his appearance, but I had a keen inclination to hold his mouth and force him to smile straight. Smile I say, but I had only seen him smile once and then very slightly. What I really wanted to do was to coerce him, but it could not be done; he was thinking--thinking of something that was not conducive to smiles. He arose slowly to greet me. Arose, as one disturbed most unwillingly. While rising he screwed the top on his fountain pen and leisurely adjusted it to his inside pocket. He received me kindly but with manifest annoyance. His face reddened when I told him my mission, and he walked deliberately away from me after I became seated. This discouraged me, but I noticed to my complete satisfaction that he was not handsome--he was not handsome and his clothes were not a good fit. I was glad of these facts, because when I entered the room there was something in the atmosphere, something intangible about the melancholy figure that excited my sympathy and even made my heart beat quicker. But now I saw plainly from his demeanor--his utter indifference--that he regarded me only as a reporter. This was why I was glad to see he was just a short, homely man. I said, “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion at this trying hour. I was compelled to come for an interview.” “Interview! How extraordinary, when a man’s wife is lying dead.” His air of surprise did not deceive me, for I knew that many reporters had preceded me. But I felt hurt in my whole being at the rebuff. How could I justify myself for having to confront him at this hour--for this indelicate visit. My color rose, I rose, and the temperature rose. For a moment I could not speak; when my voice returned I replied humbly, most humbly, “The editor gave me the assignment, and I try never to fall down on my job. You must know that it is hard--quite as hard for me as it is for you.” I felt all at once the fact that in my effort to succeed in my business I had overlapped conventionalities too rashly. “Damn editors, they have no feeling for anyone,” he muttered; then asked my pardon. I bowed my head and tried to look more modest than a reporter can look.