But he was satisfied with himself.

You could see it in his expression, and in all his attitudes and movements.

He was living in a dude dreamland where all his squalid shams were genuine, and himself a sincerity.

It disarmed criticism, it mollified spite, to see him so enjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and his studied daintinesses of gesture and misbegotten refinements.

It was plain to me that he was imagining himself the Prince of Wales, and was doing everything the way he thought the Prince would do it.