Nemesis

It was a peculiarity of Winston Aylett that he was never discomposed
in seeming, however embarrassing or distressing might be his
position. In his childhood he was one to whom, to use the common
phrase, dirt would not stick. His face was clean and fair, his hands
smooth, and his hair in order after rough and tumble experiences
that sent his companions home begrimed, ragged, and unkempt frights.
To-night, he had ridden a dozen miles in the teeth of the storm, and
made no pause before appearing before his wife and sister, except to
lay off his hat and overcoat in the hall. But had he expected to
encounter a roomful of ladies, his costume could not have been more
unexceptionable.

His linen was pure and fresh, even to the narrow line of wristband
edging his coat sleeve; his clearly cut patrician features were
tranquil in every line and tint; his step was the light, yet
deliberate stride of an athlete without passion or bravado.
Conscious power, inexorable will, and thorough self-command were
stamped upon him from crown to foot, and his salutation to the small
family party accompanied a smile as mirthless and cold as were his
eyes.

Mrs. Aylett advanced a step, not more, and returned the bow that
comprehended all present, with a pleased, not rapturous welcome.

"We were beginning to fear lest you might be wet," she said,
emulating his polite equanimity. Genuine tact is always
chameleon-like in quality. "It rains quite fast, does it not?"