He was a great lover of the Arts, but his tastes were catholic and he
worshipped at many shrines. He had no great patience with those who
admire the modern to the exclusion of the old, or whose allegiance to one
school precludes acceptance of another. He held his arms wide open and
embraced Art in all its manifestations.

He was a great hero-worshipper; there was no sort of achievement he did
not admire, but he had his special favourites; generally these were
successful playwrights or novelists whose work he revised for publication
at a minimum rate and whose additional recognition, in the form of a back
seat for a first night or a signed presentation copy, produced in him a
quite inordinate gratitude.

David Saunderson was the embodiment of ponderousness; he spoke as slowly
as he moved his cumbersome limbs. So gradual were his mental processes
that his friends forbore to ask him questions, knowing that they would
not have time to wait for his replies. For these reasons the agile in
body and mind avoided encounters with him, but if he chanced to meet them
where there was no escape they would evade him by cunning or invent
transparent excuses which only one so artless as he would have believed.

Now and then he paid visits to old friends who were sometimes caught
unawares. Then he would settle his huge bulk in an arm-chair, and his
head, bald except for a fringe of grey hair about the ears, seemed to
sink into his chest, upon which the bearded chin reposed as though the
whole affair were too heavy to support. At such times he gave one the
impression of a massive fixture which could be about as easily moved as a
grand piano, and his hosts would resign themselves to their fate.