They are always very untidy, and they have the most absurd ideas of their own abilities.

You can't have them in society, you know!--you simply can't! If I had a house of my own I would never have a poet inside it." The grim lines round Helmsley's mouth hardened, and made him look almost cruelly saturnine.

Yet he murmured under his breath:-- "'All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame; Are but the ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame!'" "What's that ?" she asked quickly.
"Poetry!" he answered, "by a man named Coleridge.

He is dead now.

He used to take opium, and he did not understand business matters.