One could easily fix his type; it never, happily, dies out. " He got up and, as he had done the night before, went to the fire, gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us. I remember as a most pleasant impression the broad, clear front, its open windows and fresh curtains and the pair of maids looking out; I remember the lawn and the bright flowers and the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the clustered treetops over which the rooks circled and cawed in the golden sky. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence.