The postman swung his bag into a more comfortable position and looked across his machine at me with a grin.
“Those as has money can afford to have any ideas they like,” he said at last.
“I’m afraid his money doesn’t make him very happy,” I ventured, still groping for further enlightenment.
The postman gave his right pedal a vigorous twirl as a hint of departure. He then took out a packet of Navy Cut cigarettes and lighted one. This action seemed to stimulate his mental activities, and he leant on the handle-bars and said:
“Ay, if one has no money maybe one can make oneself happy thinking one has. And if one has money, may be one can make oneself happy by thinking one hasn’t.” He blinked at me, and then added, by way of solving all life’s mysteries: “If one—puts too much store by these things.”
I could find no remark to complement the postman’s sententious conclusions, and, dismissing me with a nod, he mounted his bicycle and rode off up the hill.