He had once described to a fellow-writer the impression produced on him by that plaster face, so capaciously ugly, as though comprehending the whole of human life, sharing all man's gluttony and lust, his violence and rapacity, but sharing also his strivings toward love and reason and serenity.
"He's telling us," said Hilary, "to drink deep, to dive down and live with mermaids, to lie out on the hills under the sun, to sweat with helots, to know all things and all men.

No seat, he says, among the Wise, unless we've been through it all before we climb! That's how he strikes me--not too cheering for people of our sort!" Under the shadow of this bust Hilary rested his forehead on his hand.

In front of him were three open books and a pile of manuscript, and pushed to one side a little sheaf of pieces of green-white paper, press-cuttings of his latest book.
The exact position occupied by his work in the life of such a man is not too easy to define.

He earned an income by it, but he was not dependent on that income.

As poet, critic, writer of essays, he had made himself a certain name--not a great name, but enough to swear by.