The Silent Woman by Eliza Margaret Jane Humphreys

When Rufus Myrthe sought his room that night, he looked at himself in the glass with a vague sense of something lost and something gained by that personality which he recognised as--himself. For, as he knew, no one ever really sees themselves in life, more especially when motion, or circumstances, give a new meaning to facial expression. We behold a reflection in a mirror that faces us under trying ordeals of shaving, hairdressing, hat-fixing, and full-dress, or un-dress occasions, but we never see what we really are, what we really mean, to less familiar eyes.

This present Rufus Myrthe proceeded to divest himself of what he called his "tramp slops," and to restlessly promenade his apartment like a sentry on duty, what time he passed in review the events of the day, and the significance attachable to them. He had a peculiar habit of marshalling facts; docketing them, and laying them by in mental pockets, so that on any special occasion he could bring them out and re-peruse their meaning. But for once he found the task unpleasing and unsatisfactory. He was no longer on pleasant terms with life, as life had hitherto shown itself.