We talked of vulgarity. She had once read a book of mine, and I complained bitterly of my vulgarity, saying, you know, that one didn’t begin by being vulgar, “but one began,” I suggested, “by being just bumptious. The meeker you are, the more bumptious you probably are inside, but that does not harm. Not that I was ever really meek. And at the beginning there’s a tremendous humility in you to yourself. You can’t have any achievement without that humility, and yet you lose it later on because you find out all the wrong things about yourself. People are only too ready to show you the wrong things about yourself. They like doing it. They seem to think there is something wrong with conceit. It irritates fools, because they think it is unwarranted. How do they know if it is unwarranted, and what does it matter if it is or not? Or it irritates them because they too once had in themselves a humility to themselves, and then allowed it to be, according to that Bottomley-Kipling-John-Bull gospel, ‘knocked out of them.’ And so if a young man is not very strong he lets the mischievous fools take his conceit away from him, he turns his back on his real conceit, which is himself--he has it ‘knocked out of him,’ just as any taste for music was knocked out of him by his public-school--and goes out for one of the spurious conceits which are called ‘being as others are.’ Then he has put his feet on the endless and never-ending road of vulgarity, and there are very few turnings....” She sat in the deep wicker armchair, which had come with me from Chelsea six years before but would travel nevermore. It creaked madly as she sat down, and she glanced at it in surprise. “Of course,” she said, “it’s contagious....” “You are quite wrong,” I said. “The real sticky part seems to come from inside one. And there, you see, is where a writer has a sense of defeat--a writer, I mean, who must earn his living by writing, and so must always write. For it is more difficult for a second-rate writer not to be vulgar than for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye. It uncoils from somewhere inside you, like a nasty, sticky snake. So slick it is, too. So helpful, often. And when you see it for the first time you stare at it transfixed, and you say, ‘But _I_ am not vulgar!’ But you get used to it later on. Very few people notice it. Most people like it. And, of course, it pays.” “The golden snake,” she said. “It’s quite a good snake. It is silly to despise money.”