“I was describing your character to a friend.”
“A friend?” he queried, looking round; and then rather unexpectedly he left his seat and came to us.
There were two things that impressed me about him—the extreme sweetness and yet hardness of his face. In some ways he appeared no older than a youth not yet turned twenty, in others he resembled a man hardened beyond even the degree to which men can attain.
“You are Genius?” he remarked lightly, and I noticed that his voice corresponded to his face. “Vestné says you are dull over there for lack of company; you should visit me, I am never dull.”
“This is Vestasian,” said Plucritus, “who, to quote my favourite earthly poet, Dryden, is—
‘A man so various that he seems to be,
Not one but all mankind’s epitome.’”
“Look at that man over there,” interposed Vestasian, gazing towards the stage. “He comes in aptly for the second part of the quotation:—
‘Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
All things by starts and nothing long.’”
“Genius himself can fill up the third part of the text,” put in Plucritus:—