Her Sailor by Marshall Saunders

She hurried through her second toilet in order that she might go and see Miss Marsden before the breakfast-bell rang. On her way to her a few minutes later, she met Mr. Delessert, who was coming from his room. His attire was, as usual, irreproachably elegant. There was not a wrinkle in the dark blue clothes that fitted so admirably his straight, well-proportioned figure. The knot in his necktie was perfection itself; and his carefully brushed hair and smooth moustache threw her recent attempts at hair-brushing quite into the shade.

In the midst of her newly conceived horror of the man, she wondered whether he would dare to speak to her. Not he; with a complete control over his features, he absolutely looked through her blushing, indignant face to the wall behind. Judging by his expressionless countenance there was not a living creature near him.