"That's better."
"Suited to your taste, you mean." He wandered on through numerous scraps of dance music. "Do you dance, Carstairs?"
"Not much."
"Oh, you must. You and I are going strong this winter."
"I'm going to work."
"Quite so, so am I. So much that the average man considers work is painful, misdirected effort. Do you want results, financial results?"
"You can bet your boots on that."
Darwen's fingers moved very slowly, it was a slow waltz tune, very slow; his gaze was far away. "The whole world is a shop," he said, speaking very slowly. "Everything is bought and sold; the most successful salesman is not the man who has the best goods, but he who shows them most advantageously. We sell our brains, you and I, our brains and nerves. The buyers are the Corporation; this collection of greengrocers, drapers, lawyers, doctors, and one navvy. They are entirely incapable of judging our technical abilities, they rely on the opinion of a fool; a sort of promoted wireman, the chief." The music ceased altogether, and he wheeled round facing Carstairs. "And however much you grind, and swot, and work, this fool (who only got his job because these people are unable to distinguish between a man who can use his hands and one who can use his head) will always fix your market value, and by his own little standard. The obvious conclusion is to get a better place in the shop window than the fool occupies."
Carstairs was silent.
"Do you agree with that?"