is it you are after yourself?"

"A perfect detonator," was the peremptory answer. "What are you making
that face for? You see, you can't even bear the mention of something
conclusive."

"I am not making a face," growled the annoyed Ossipon bearishly.

"You revolutionises," the other continued, with leisurely
self-confidence, "are the slaves of the social convention, which is
afraid of you; slaves of it as much as the very police that stands up in
the defence of that convention. Clearly you are, since you want to
revolutionise it. It governs your thought, of course, and your action
too, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be
conclusive." He paused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless
silence, then almost immediately went on. "You are not a bit better than
the forces arrayed against you--than the police, for instance. The other
day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham
Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. But I did not look at him.
Why should I give him more than a glance? He was thinking of many
things--of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his
salary, of newspapers--of a hundred things. But I was thinking of my
perfect detonator only. He meant nothing to me. He was as insignificant
as--I can't call to mind anything insignificant enough to compare him
with--except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The terrorist and the
policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, legality--counter
moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical. He plays
his little game--so do you propagandists. But I don't play; I work
fourteen hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My experiments cost money
now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or two. You're