LONDON
smart society is as low and vulgar and uncomfortable for a balanced soul as a gin palace, no more and no less; there's no place or level of honour or fine living left in the world; so what's the good of climbing?"
"'Ear, 'ear," said Sid.
"It's true," said Kipps.
"I don't climb," said Masterman, and accepted Kipps' silent offer of another cigarette.
"No," he said. "This world is out of joint. It's broken up, and I doubt if it will heal. I doubt very much if it'll heal. We're in the beginning of the Sickness of the World."
He rolled his cigarette in his lean fingers and repeated with satisfaction: "The Sickness of the World."
"It's we've got to make it better," said Sid, and looked at Kipps.
"Ah, Sid's an optimist," said Masterman.
"So are you, most times," said Sid.
Kipps lit another cigarette with an air of intelligent participation.
"Frankly," said Masterman, recrossing his legs and expelling a jet of smoke luxuriously, "frankly, I think this civilisation of ours is on the topple."
"There's Socialism," said Sid.
"There's no imagination to make use of it."
"We've got to make one," said Sid.
"In a couple of centuries perhaps," said Masterman. "But meanwhile we're going to have a pretty acute attack of universal confusion. Universal confusion. Like one of those crushes when men are killed and maimed for no reason at all, going into a meeting
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