One remembers men by odd things. I remember Mr. Yeats chiefly as a dark
image, obscurely seen, and Mr. Shaw as a shy, erect man with fine,
shapely hands, who talks emphatically because otherwise he would not
be talking at all. I remember Mr. Galsworthy as one who is biting his
lips or clenching his teeth lest he should say too much, and Mr. George
Moore as one who is consumed with the fear that he will not say enough.
Mr. Wells comes into my mind as an eager, friendly man, whose speech,
thinly uttered, suggests continual testing. But mostly I remember his
fine eyes because it is in them that most of his strength is stored.