“So, my dear Lord,” he continued, settling himself comfortably in his chair and rubbing the wineglass between his fingers, “we must make the best of it, cherish the past and honour those writers⁠—there are still a few left of ’em⁠—who take antiquity for their model and write, not for pay, but for Glawr.” (Orlando could have wished him a better accent.) “Glawr,” said Greene, “is the spur of noble minds. Had I a pension of three hundred pounds a year paid quarterly, I would live for Glawr alone. I would lie in bed every morning reading Cicero. I would imitate his style so that you couldn’t tell the difference between us. That’s what I call fine writing,” said Greene; “that’s what I call Glawr. But it’s necessary to have a pension to do it.”