He was later than he thought. He could not come all the way to my
station. He had to turn off to his theatre.

At the top of Fleet Street hill we shook hands and said "So long"
to each other. The cab drew up just outside the office of a
sporting newspaper. I got out, and raised my hand to him. He
raised his in his grave way. The cab swung round and set off
westwards, and that was the end.

When I heard of his death I felt that his interest in life would
soon get itself into another body, and come here again to look on
and listen. When a life ends, it is a sign that Nature's purpose
in that life is over. When a personality has passed from us it is
a sign that life has no further need of it. What that personality
did may matter. What that personality was does not matter. Man's
task is to leave the dead alone. Life would be finer if we did not
drag that caddisworm's house of the past behind us.

I have not set down all my memories of him. Much of what he told
and said to me was told and said in the confidence of friendship.
I have set down only a few odd fragments to show those who care to
know what sort of a man he was. Lies and lives will be written of
him; plenty of both. Enough should be said to defeat the malice
and stupidity of detractors. Those who want to know what he was in
himself should read the poems. The poems are the man speaking.
They are so like him that to read them is to hear him. The
couplet--

"But they are rotten (I ask their pardon,)