That will do, I think." The man retired, and the door was closed by an expert in closing doors, one who had devoted his life to the perfection of detail in valetry.
_Fame_ He lay on the sofa at the foot of the bed, with all illumination extinguished save one crimson-shaded light immediately above him.

The evening papers--white, green, rose, cream, and yellow--shared his couch.
He was about to glance at the obituaries; to glance at them in a careless, condescending way, just to see the _sort_ of thing that journalists had written of him.

He knew the value of obituaries; he had often smiled at them.

He knew also the exceeding fatuity of art criticism, which did not cause him even to smile, being simply a bore.
He recollected, further, that he was not the first man to read his own obituary; the adventure had happened to others; and he could recall how, on his having heard that owing to an error it had happened to the great so-and-so, he, in his quality of philosopher, had instantly decided what frame of mind the great so-and-so ought to have assumed for the perusal of his biography.

He carefully and deliberately adopted that frame of mind now.