Pierce glanced at him, and had again the feeling of incongruity at seeing the ceremonial cabbage adorning his comparatively venerable head. For the Colonel had just been married, and was rejuvenated in an almost jaunty degree. Somehow the philosophical young man seemed to miss something, and sighed. It was then that he made the remark which is the pivot of this precise though laborious anecdote. “Since the Colonel ate his hat,” he said, “the Lunatic Asylum has lacked a background.” “Damn your impudence,” said the Colonel cheerfully. “Do you mean to call me a background to my face?” “A dark background,” said Pierce soothingly. “Do not resent my saying a dark background. I mean a grand, mysterious background like that of night; a sublime and even starry background.” “Starry yourself,” said Crane indignantly. “It was against that background of ancient night,” went on the young man dreamily, “that the fantastic shapes and fiery colours of our carnival could really be seen. So long as he came here with his black coat and beautiful society manners there was a foil to our follies. We were eccentric, but he was our centre. You cannot be eccentric without a centre.” “I believe Hilary is quite right,” said Owen Hood earnestly. “I believe we have made a great mistake. We ought not to have all gone mad at once. We ought to have taken it in turns to go mad. Then I could have been shocked at his behaviour on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and he could have been shocked at my behaviour on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. But there is no moral value in going mad when nobody is shocked. If Crane leaves off being shocked, what are we to do?” “I know what we want,” began Pierce excitedly. “So do I,” interrupted Hood. “We want a sane man.” “Not so easy to find nowadays,” said the old soldier. “Going to advertise?” “I mean a stupid man,” explained Owen Hood. “I mean a man who’s conventional all through, not a humbug like Crane. I mean, I want a solid, serious business man, a hard-headed, practical man of affairs, a man to whom vast commercial interests are committed. In a word, I want a fool; some beautiful, rounded, homogeneous fool, in whose blameless face, as in a round mirror, all our fancies may really be reflected and renewed. I want a very successful man, a very wealthy man, a man----” “I know! I know!” cried young Pierce, almost waving his arms. “Enoch Oates!” “Who’s Enoch Oates?” inquired White. “Are the lords of the world so little known?” asked Hood. “Enoch Oates is Pork, and nearly everything else; Enoch Oates is turning civilization into one vast sausage-machine. Didn’t I ever tell you how Hilary ran into him over that pig affair?”