Symon, who will show you over the old cellar downstairs."
Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man, prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow, separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face.
"Yes, it's all one system," replied Symon. "It was all fitted up for the day His Royal Highness deposited the thing here.
Paul to Britain, was probably preserved in this chapel until the eighth century," Symon was saying in his clear but colorless voice.
"Well, you've done it now," said Symon, in his tranquil fashion.
The required silence remained unbroken for a long time until at last the clergyman said to Symon in a low voice:
He had opened his mouth to speak to Symon, when he stopped, and suddenly found himself blinking in the full shock of the white light, and looking over the other man's shoulder, he saw that the door was standing open.
"So they've got at us at last," he observed to Symon.
"Here comes Colonel Morris," went on Twyford, still speaking to Symon. "One of us will have to tell him how the light went out.
Symons right in thinking him a master of all the arts of poetry.
Symons is right in  laying emphasis on the grace, the finished skill, the music, native and ever ready to the poet himself--tender, manly, humorous, awe-stricken--when speaking in his own proper person.