He was a great and famous writer, and all the world honored him; while I, hidden away in my castle on a rock on the edge of Muircarrie, was so far from being interesting or clever that even in my grandest evening dress and tiara of jewels I was as insignificant as a mouse.

In fact, I always felt rather silly when I was obliged to wear my diamonds on state occasions as custom sometimes demanded.
Mr.MacNairn wrote essays and poems, and marvelous stories which were always real though they were called fiction.

Wheresoever his story was placed--howsoever remote and unknown the scene--it was a real place, and the people who lived in it were real, as if he had some magic power to call up human things to breathe and live and set one's heart beating.
I read everything he wrote.

I read every word of his again and again.

I always kept some book of his near enough to be able to touch it with my hand; and often I sat by the fire in the library holding one open on my lap for an hour or more, only because it meant a warm, close companionship.