Nearly his entire time had been spent in Paris; but of this sojourn he had brought back but two souvenirs, an electro-plated bill-hook and an empty bird cage which had tickled his fancy immensely.
He was wealthy.

Only a year previous to this his father--a widower, who had amassed a fortune in land speculation--had died, and Annixter, the only son, had come into the inheritance.
For Presley, Annixter professed a great admiration, holding in deep respect the man who could rhyme words, deferring to him whenever there was question of literature or works of fiction.

No doubt, there was not much use in poetry, and as for novels, to his mind, there were only Dickens's works.

Everything else was a lot of lies.

But just the same, it took brains to grind out a poem.