It is one of the consolations of middle aged reformers that the good that they inculcate must live after them if it is to live at all.

You needn't tell me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.

He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.

The man is a common murderer. A common murderer, possible, but a very uncommon cook.

There are certain fixed rules that one observes for one's own comfort. For instance, never be flippantly rude to any inoffensive grey-bearded stranger that you may meet in pine forests or hotel smoking-rooms on the Continent. It always turns out to be the King of Sweden.

Think how many blameless lives are brightened by the blazing indiscretions of other people.

The censorious said she slept in a hammock and understood Yeats's poems, but her family denied both stories.