He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. “I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. What ho! lights! lights!" And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.
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