He differs from Symons in that he has an Ego, but his Ego has five senses and no soul." "What about Bernard Shaw ?" I probed further, "after all he's going to count." "Yes, Frank, a man of real ability but with a bleak mind.

Humorous gleams as of wintry sunlight on a bare, harsh landscape.

He has no passion, no feeling, and without passionate feeling how can one be an artist?
He believes in nothing, loves nothing, not even Bernard Shaw, and really, on the whole, I don't wonder at his indifference," and he laughed mischievously.
"And Wells ?" I asked.
"A scientific Jules Verne," he replied with a shrug.
"Did you ever care for Hardy ?" I continued.
"Not greatly.

He has just found out that women have legs underneath their dresses, and this discovery has almost wrecked his life.

He writes poetry, I believe, in his leisure moments, and I am afraid it will be very hard reading.