He came in with a sort of royal greeting, he flung his big limbs on
a sofa; he talked easily, quietly, lavishly, saying fine things
with no effort, dropping a subject quickly if he thought it did not
interest me; sometimes flashing out with a quick gesture of
impatience or gusto, enjoying life, every moment and every detail.
His quick eyes, roving about, took in each smallest point, not in
the weary feverish way in which I apprehend a new scene, but as
though he liked everything new and unfamiliar, like an unsated
child. He greeted Maud and the children with a kind of chivalrous
tenderness and intimacy, as though he loved all pretty and tender
things, and took joy in their nearness. He held Alec between his
knees, and played with him while he talked. The children took
possession of him, as if they had known him all their lives. And
yet there was no touch of pose, no consciousness of greatness or
vigour about him. He was as humble, grateful, interested, as though
he were a poor stranger dependent on our bounty. I asked him in a
quiet moment about his work. "No, I am writing nothing," he said
with a smile, "I have said all I have got to say,"--and then with a
sudden humorous flash, "though I believe I should be able to write
more if I could get decent paper and respectable type to print my
work.
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