I think of subjects, but they remain mere lifeless names.

They are mere words--they are not images.
What am I to do ?" Rowland was a trifle annoyed.

"Be a man," he was on the point of saying, "and don't, for heaven's sake, talk in that confoundedly querulous voice." But before he had uttered the words, there rang through the studio a loud, peremptory ring at the outer door.
Roderick broke into a laugh.

"Talk of the devil," he said, "and you see his horns! If that 's not a customer, it ought to be." The door of the studio was promptly flung open, and a lady advanced to the threshold--an imposing, voluminous person, who quite filled up the doorway.

Rowland immediately felt that he had seen her before, but he recognized her only when she moved forward and disclosed an attendant in the person of a little bright-eyed, elderly gentleman, with a bristling white moustache.