"The same. There's a thousand forms of work for
women now. But you had the beginning of the

independent working-woman in your days. Most women
are independent now. Most of these are married

more or less--there are a number of methods of
contract--and that gives them more money, and enables

them to enjoy themselves."
"I see," said Graham looking at the flushed faces,

the flash and swirl of movement, and still thinking of
that nightmare of pink helpless limbs." And these

are--mothers."
"Most of them."

"The more I see of these things the more complex
I find your problems. This, for instance, is a surprise.

That news from Paris was a surprise."
In a little while he spoke again:

"These are mothers. Presently, I suppose, I shall
get into the modern way of seeing things. I have old

habits of mind clinging about me--habits based, I
suppose, on needs that are over and done with. Of

course, in our time, a woman was supposed not only
to bear children, but to cherish them, to devote herself

to them, to educate them--all the essentials of moral
and mental education a child owed its mother.

Or went without. Quite a number, I admit, went
without. Nowadays, clearly, there is no more need

for such care than if they were butterflies. I see that!
Only there was an ideal--that figure of a grave,

patient woman, silently and serenely mistress of a
home, mother and maker of men--to love her was a

sort of worship--"
He stopped and repeated, "A sort of worship."

"Ideals change," said the little man, "as needs
change."

Graham awoke from an instant reverie and Asano
repeated his words. Graham's mind returned to the

thing at hand.
"Of course I see the perfect reasonableness of this

Restraint, soberness, the matured thought, the unselfish a
act, they are necessities of the barbarous state, the

life of dangers. Dourness is man's tribute to
unconquered nature. But man has conquered nature now

for all practical purposes--his political affairs are
managed by Bosses with a black police--and life is

joyous."
He looked at the dancers again. "Joyous," he

said.
"There are weary moments," said the little officer,

reflectively.
"They all look young. Down there I should be

visibly the oldest man. And in my own time I should
have passed as middle-aged."

"They are young. There are few old people in this
class in the work cities."

"How is that? "
"Old people's lives are not so pleasant as they used

to be, unless they are rich to hire lovers and helpers.
And we have an institution called Euthanasy."

"Ah! that Euthanasy!" said Graham. "The easy
death? "

"The easy death. It is the last pleasure. The
Euthanasy Company does it well. People will pay the

sum--it is a costly thing--long beforehand, go off to
some pleasure city and return impoverished and

weary, very weary."
"There is a lot left for me to understand," said

Graham after a pause. "Yet I see the logic of it all.
Our array of angry virtues and sour restraints was the

consequence of danger and insecurity. The Stoic, the
Puritan, even in my time, were vanishing types. In

the old days man was armed against Pain, now he is
eager for Pleasure. There lies the difference.

Civilisation has driven pain and danger so far off--for
well-to-do people. And only well-to-do people matter

now. I have been asleep two hundred years."
For a minute they leant on the balustrading, following

the intricateevolution of the dance. Indeed the
scene was very beautiful.

"Before God," said Graham, suddenly, "I would
rather be a wounded sentinel freezing in the snow than

one of these painted fools! "
"In the snow," said Asano, "one might think

diferently."
" I am uncivilised," said Graham, not heeding him.

"That is the trouble. I am primitive--Palaeolithic.
Their fountain of rage and fear and anger is sealed

and closed, the habits of a lifetime make them cheerful
and easy and delightful. You must bear with my

nineteenth century shocks and disgusts. These
people, you say, are skilled workers and so forth. And

while these dance, men are fighting--men are dying
in Paris to keep the world--that they may dance."

Asano smiled faintly. "For that matter, men are
dying in London," he said.

There was a moment's silence.
"Where do these sleep?" asked Graham.

"Above and below--an intricate warren."
"And where do they work? This is--the domestic

life."
"You will see little work to-night. Half the workers

are out or under arms. Half these people are keeping
holiday. But we will go to the work places if you

wish it."
For a time Graham watched the dancers, then

suddenly turned away. "I want to see the workers.
I have seen enough of these," he said.

Asano led the way along the gallery across the
dancing hall. Presently they came to a transverse

passage that brought a breath of fresher, colder air.
Asano glanced at this passage as they went past,

stopped, went back to it, and turned to Graham with
a smile. "Here, Sire," he said, "is something--will

be familiar to you at least--and yet--. But I will
not tell you. Come! "

He led the way along a closed passage that presently
became cold. The reverberation of their feet told

that this passage was a bridge. They came into a
circulargallery that was glazed in from the outer

weather, and so reached a circularchamber which
seemed familiar, though Graham could not recall

distinctly when he had entered it before. In this was a
ladder--the first ladder he had seen since his

awakening--up which they went, and came into a
high, dark, cold place in which was another almost

vertical ladder. This they ascended, Graham still
perplexed.