"The reality of life, my dear Ponderevo," I remember him saying very
impressively and punctuating with the nut-crackers as he spoke, "is
Chromatic Conflict ... and Form. Get hold of that and let all these
other questions go. The Socialist will tell you one sort of colour and
shape is right, the Individualist another. What does it all amount
to? What DOES it all amount to? NOTHING! I have no advice to give
anyone,--except to avoid regrets. Be yourself, seek after such beautiful
things as your own sense determines to be beautiful. And don't mind
the headache in the morning.... For what, after all, is a morning,
Ponderevo? It isn't like the upper part of a day!"

He paused impressively.

"What Rot!" I cried, after a confused attempt to apprehend him.

"Isn't it! And it's my bedrock wisdom in the matter! Take it or
leave it, my dear George; take it or leave it."... He put down the
nut-crackers out of my reach and lugged a greasy-looking note-book from
his pocket. "I'm going to steal this mustard pot," he said.

I made noises of remonstrance.

"Only as a matter of design. I've got to do an old beast's tomb.

"Wholesale grocer. I'll put it on his corners,--four mustard pots. I dare
say he'd be glad of a mustard plaster now to cool him, poor devil, where
he is. But anyhow,--here goes!"

V