John Galsworthy

“ Clothed in the calm of history, the golden web of glorious tradition, radiant with the alchemy of memories, it bewitched him like the perfume of a woman's dress. At the entrance of a college they glanced in at the cool grey patch of stone beyond, and the scarlet of a window flowerbox—secluded, mysteriously calm—a narrow vision of the sacred past. Pale and trencher-capped, a youth with pimply face and random nose, grabbing at his cloven gown, was gazing at the noticeboard. The college porter—large man, fresh-faced, and small-mouthed—stood at his lodge door in a frank and deferential attitude. ”

“ They now entered the Bishop's Head, and had their dinner in the room where Shelton had given his Derby dinner to four-and-twenty well-bred youths; here was the picture of the racehorse that the wineglass, thrown by one of them, had missed when it hit the waiter; and there, serving Crocker with anchovy sauce, was the very waiter. When they had finished, Shelton felt the old desire to rise with difficulty from the table; the old longing to patrol the streets with arm hooked in some other arm; the old eagerness to dare and do something heroic—and unlawful ”

“ A feeling of hostility instantly sprang up in Shelton; he looked at his little host, who, however, merely blinked.
"Berryman only means," explains Washer, a certain malice in his smile, "that the author is n't one of his particular pets."
"For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on his horse!" growled the little fat man suddenly.
Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down. There was something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness.
"Imagine a man writing that stuff," he said, "if he'd ever been at Eton! What do we want to know about that sort of thing? ”