shutting. As for the profanation of your sacred ears, just apply a little theory of relativity, and realize that what I say is not what you hear, but something uttered in the midst of my isolation, and arriving strangely changed and travel-worn down the long curve of your own individual circumambient atmosphere. I may say Bob, but heaven alone knows what the goose hears. And you may be sure that a red rag is, to a bull, something far more mysterious and complicated than a socialist’s necktie.

So I hope now I have put you in your place, dear reader. Sit you like Watts’ Hope on your own little blue globe, and I’ll sit on mine, and we won’t bump into one another if we can help it. You can twang your old hopeful lyre. It may be music to you, so I don’t blame you. It is a terrible wowing in my