With him it was the time when the mind is, or ought to be, at its best, the body at its freshest and hungriest.
Discussions of the latest plays and novels, the doings and undoings of statesmen, laughter and sentiment--to him, at breakfast, these things were as important as sausages and thick cream.
Breakfast over, there was no dawdling and putting off of the day's work (else how, at eleven sharp, could tennis be played with a free conscience ?).

Loving, as he did, everything connected with a newspaper, he would now pass by those on the hall-table with never so much as a wistful glance, and hurry to his workroom.
He wrote sitting down.

He wrote standing up.

And, almost you may say, he wrote walking up and down.

Some people, accustomed to the delicious ease and clarity of his style, imagine that he wrote very easily.