uld go even further than that," said Eeldrop. "The majority not
only have no language to express anything save generalized man; they are
for the most part unaware of themselves as anything but generalized men.
They are first of all government officials, or pillars of the church, or
trade unionists, or poets, or unemployed; this cataloguing is not only
satisfactory to other people for practical purposes, it is sufficient
to themselves for their 'life of the spirit.' Many are not quite real at
any moment. When Wolstrip married, I am sure he said to himself: 'Now I
am consummating the union of two of the best families in Philadelphia.'"

"The question is," said Appleplex, "what is to be our philosophy. This
must be settled at once. Mrs. Howexden recommends me to read Bergson. He
writes very entertainingly on the structure of the eye of the frog."

"Not at all," interrupted his friend. "Our philosophy is quite
irrelevant. The essential is, that our philosophy should spring from our
point of view and not return upon itself to explain our point of view. A
philosophy about intuition is somewhat less likely to be intuitive than
any other. We must avoid having a platform."

"But at least," said Appleplex, "we are..."

"Individualists. No!! nor anti-intellectualists. These also are labels.
The 'individualist' is a member of a mob as fully as any other man: and
the mob of individualists is the most unpleasing, because it has
the least character. Nietzsche was a mob-man, just as Bergson is an
intellectualist. We cannot escape the label, but let it be one which
carries no distinction, and arouses no self-consciousness. Sufficient
that we should find simple labels, and not further exploit them. I am, I
confess to you, in private life, a bank-clerk...."

"And should, according to your own view, have a wife, three children,
and a vegetable garden in a suburb," said Appleplex.

"Such is precisely the case," returned Eeldrop, "but I had not thought
it necessary to mention this biographical detail. As it is Saturday
night, I shall return to my suburb. Tomorrow will be spent in that
garden...."

"I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden," murmured Appleplex.

II

The suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the gardens of the
small houses to left and right were rank with ivy and tall grass and
lilac bushes; the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and
mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies. Eeldrop, at