There are men who are like malarious swamps,--poisonous,
depressing and weakening by their very presence. They make heavy,
oppressive and gloomy the atmosphere of their own homes; the sound of
the children's play is stilled, the ripples of laughter are frozen by
their presence. They go through life as if each day were a new big
funeral, and they were always chief mourners. There are other men who
seem like the ocean; they are constantly bracing, stimulating, giving
new draughts of tonic life and strength by their very presence.
There are men who are insincere in heart, and that insincerity is
radiated by their presence. They have a wondrous interest in your
welfare,--when they need you. They put on a "property" smile so
suddenly, when it serves their purpose, that it seems the smile must be
connected with some electric button concealed in their clothes. Their
voice has a simulated cordiality that long training may have made
almost natural. But they never play their part absolutely true, the
mask _will_ slip down sometimes; their cleverness cannot teach
their eyes the look of sterling honesty; they may deceive some people,
but they cannot deceive all.
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