Something in the character redeems it.

With Michael's undeniable good looks it was the same.

One did not notice them.

They were not admired, except, possibly, for the first moment, or across a room.

His rather insignificant grey eyes were the only thing one remembered him by, the only part of him which seemed to represent him.
It was as if out of the narrow window of a fortress _our friend_ for a moment looked out; that "friend of our infinite dreams" who in dreams, but, alas! never by day, comes softly to us across the white fields of youth; who, later on, in dreams but never by day, overtakes us with unbearable happiness in his hand in which to steep our exhaustion on the hillside; who when our hair is grey comes to us still in dreams but never by day, down the darkening valley, to tell us that our worn out romantic hopes are but the alphabet of his language.
Such a look there was in Michael's eyes, and what it meant who shall say?
Once and again at long intervals we pass in the thoroughfare of life young faces which have the same expression, as if they saw beyond, as if they looked past their own youth across to an immortal youth, from their own life to an unquenchable, upwelling spring of life.