“Well, it’s one of the things we’ve got to think about in any case,” said Mr. Boldero. “We can’t afford to neglect such powerful social emotions as these. Sex, as we’ve seen, is almost entirely out of the question. We must run the rest, therefore, as hard as we can. For instance, there’s the novelty business. People feel superior if they possess something new which their neighbours haven’t got. The mere fact of newness is an intoxication. We must encourage that sense of superiority, brew up that intoxication. The most absurd and futile objects can be sold because they’re new. Not long ago I sold four million patent soap-dishes of a new and peculiar kind. The point was that you didn’t screw the fixture into the bathroom wall; you made a hole in the wall and built the soap-dish into a niche, like a holy water stoup. My soap-dishes possessed no advantages over other kinds of soap-dishes, and they cost a fantastic amount to instal. But I managed to put them across, simply because they were new. Four million of them.” Mr. Boldero smiled with satisfaction at the recollection. “We shall do the same, I hope, with our trousers. People may be shy of being the first to appear in them; but the shyness will be compensated for by the sense of superiority and elation produced by the consciousness of the newness of the things.”
“Quite so,” said Gumbril.
“And then, of course, there’s the economy slogan. ‘One pair of Gumbril’s Patent Small-Clothes will outlast six pairs of ordinary trousers.’ That’s easy enough. So easy that it’s really uninteresting.” Mr. Boldero waved it away.
“We shall have to have pictures,” said Gumbril, parenthetically. He had an idea.
“Oh, of course.”
“I believe I know of the very man to do them,” Gumbril went on. “His name’s Lypiatt. A painter. You’ve probably heard of him.”
“Heard of him!” exclaimed Mr. Boldero. He laughed. “But who hasn’t heard of Lydgate.”
“Lypiatt.”
“Lypgate, I mean, of course.”
“I think he’d be the very man,” said Gumbril.