You see, Miss Vinrace, you must make allowances for Hirst.

He's lived all his life in front of a looking-glass, so to speak, in a beautiful panelled room, hung with Japanese prints and lovely old chairs and tables, just one splash of colour, you know, in the right place,--between the windows I think it is,--and there he sits hour after hour with his toes on the fender, talking about philosophy and God and his liver and his heart and the hearts of his friends.

They're all broken.

You can't expect him to be at his best in a ballroom.

He wants a cosy, smoky, masculine place, where he can stretch his legs out, and only speak when he's got something to say.