At evening parties he always looked like a martyr in the dismal black coat and white tie, which he described as a mixture of the livery of a waiter and the mourning of an undertaker. At dances, he propped himself against a wall, in a doorway or in some coign of vantage about the staircase, looking limp and miserable, but keenly observant all the time. When he found a congenial soul, whether man or woman, to talk to, he brightened, the limpness vanished, and his quick flow of wit and fancy streamed on in a delightful river of talk which touched on grave and gay with equal ease, and was exactly what a poet describes, as—
'His talk was like a stream that runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses,
It skipped from politics to puns,
It passed from Mahomet to Moses.
Beginning with the laws that keep
The planets in their rapid courses,
And ending with a precept deep
For stewing eels or shoeing horses.'