They were, in truth, commonplace.

What to my backward glance seems startling and a little awful is their punctualness and inevitability.

Mills was punctual.

Exactly at a quarter to twelve he appeared under the lofty portal of the Hotel de Louvre, with his fresh face, his ill-fitting grey suit, and enveloped in his own sympathetic atmosphere.
How could I have avoided him?
To this day I have a shadowy conviction of his inherent distinction of mind and heart, far beyond any man I have ever met since.

He was unavoidable: and of course I never tried to avoid him.