When he spoke people paused as if they could not bear to lose a phrase or even a word.

But in the midst of the trills of laughter surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad.

His face laughed or smiled, but his eyes never.
"He is the greatest artist in England and the most brilliant man," Mrs.
MacNairn said to me, quietly.

"But he is the saddest, too.

He had a lovely daughter who was killed instantly, in his presence, by a fall.
They had been inseparable companions and she was the delight of his life.