They dealt with no particular class of society (unless one makes a distinct class of people who have brains), and they lacked local colour.

Their interest was almost purely psychological.

It was clear that the author had no faculty for constructing a story, and that pictures of active life were not to be expected of him; he could never appeal to the multitude.
But strong characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectual fervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked all his best pages.
He was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse conditions, but whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his powers.

Anything like the cares of responsibility would sooner or later harass him into unproductiveness.

That he should produce much was in any case out of the question; possibly a book every two or three years might not prove too great a strain upon his delicate mental organism, but for him to attempt more than that would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of his work.