68 The Light That Failed admitted all the success and did not instantly care for him. “I say, old man,” said Torpenhow, who had made one or two vain attempts at conversation, “I haven't put your back up by anything I’ve said lately, have I?” “You! No. How could you?” “Liver out of order?” “The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a liver. I’m only a bit worried about things in general. I suppose it’s my soul.” “The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a soul. What business have you with luxuries of that kind?” “It came of itself. Who’s the man that says that we’re all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding?” “He’s right, whoever he is, — except about the misunderstanding. I don’t think we could misunderstand each other.” The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in clouds. Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly — “Dick, is it a woman?” “Be hanged if it’s anything remotely resembling a woman; and if you begin to talk like that, Pl hire a red-brick studio with white paint trimmings, and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to play among three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I'll mount all my pics in aniline-dye plush plasters, and Pll invite every woman who maunders over what her guide-books tell her is Art, and you shall receive ’em, Torp, — in a snuff-brown velvet coat with yellow trousers and an orange tie. You'll like that?” “Too thin, Dick. A better man than you once denied with cursing and swearing. You’ve overdone it, just as he did. It’s no business of mine, of course, but it’s comforting to think that somewhere under the stars there’s saving up for you a tremendous thrashing.