You see, I have nothing to give, and I always seem to be receiving." And he had gazed at her quite unmovedly and answered only: "What luck!" But since then he had mentioned this moment as one of those in which he had felt that he might want to marry her, because she was so unconscious of the fact that she gave much more to everybody than she received, that she had so much to give and was totally unaware of the value of her gifts.
"His thoughts of me are so _beautiful_ very often," was her favourite reflection, "though he always has that composed way of saying things.
What he says seems more _valuable_, because he is like that." In truth, his composed way of saying things it was which seemed to her incomparable.

Even when, without understanding its own longing for a thing it lacked, her heart had felt itself a little unsustained she had never ceased to feel the fascination of his entire freedom from any shadow of interest in the mental attitude of others towards himself.
When he stood and gazed at people through the glass neatly screwed into his eye, one felt that it was he whose opinion was of importance, not the other person's.

Through sheer chill imperviousness he seemed entirely detached from the powers of criticism.

What people said or thought of his fixed opinion on a subject was not of the least consequence, in fact did not exist; the entities of the persons who cavilled at such opinions themselves ceased to exist, so far as he was concerned.

His was the immovable temperament.