There was silence for the space of a minute. An impressive pause.
"Well?" said the man with the nose, putting his heel on the light.
"I have seen worse," said the second man.
"I doubt it," said the man with the nose; "and even so, it is poor comfort. Did you notice the shape? the size? the colour? Like Snowdon, it has a steep side and a gentle slope. The size is preposterous: my face is like a hen-house built behind a portico. And the tints!"
"It is not all red," said the second man, " anyhow."
"No, there is purple, and blue, 'lapis lazuli, blue as a vein over the Madonna's breast,' and in one place a greyish mole. Bah! the thing is not a nose at all, but a bit of primordial chaos clapped on to my face. But, being where the nose should be, it gets the credit of its position from unthinking people. There is a gap in the order of the universe in front of my face, a lump of unwrought material left over. In
