Martin laughed again, with the keen pleasure of youth in all things experimental.
“Yes, that is true,” he said. “How do you go on? Take a fine colour,—vermilion.”
“The blind man said it must be like the sound of a trumpet,” said Karl; “and the blind man at that moment saw. Brandy also for taste is red. So is ammonia,—a pistol to your nostrils.”
Martin dabbed his cigarette on to his dessert plate.
“Yes, yes,” he cried, “and C major is red. And F sharp is blue,—electric blue, like the grotto at Capri——“
He stopped suddenly.
“Am I talking nonsense?” he asked. “If so, it is your fault. You encourage me. You meant to. And what do you mean me to get from it?”
Karl turned directly towards him.
“I mean you to think,” he said. “To frame your life wholly for beauty in whatever form you see it. It is everywhere, be assured of that; and if your eye sees it, store it up like a honey-bee, and bring it home. If your mouth feels it, bring it home. If you smell the autumn morning, bring that home, too. It all makes music.”
He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward towards Martin.