I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the
beard. The man might have left his face alone, or had no face.

The beard did everything.

He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his
head threw up his beard at the chin.

'That's death!' said he.

He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his
beard a little awry; at the same time making it stick out before
him.

'Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,' he observed.

He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulky with
the upper part of his beard.

'Romantic character,' said he.

He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivy-bush.
'Jealousy,' said he. He gave it an ingenious twist in the air, and
informed me that he was carousing. He made it shaggy with his
fingers - and it was Despair; lank - and it was avarice: tossed it
all kinds of ways - and it was rage. The beard did everything.

'I am the Ghost of Art,' said he. 'Two bob a-day now, and more
when it's longer! Hair's the true expression. There is no other.