When their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a Spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly.

His face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping.
When this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time.

But his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear.

For they were his eyes of anger.

On these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud.