For a minute they leant on the balustrading, following the intricate evolution 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 differently.”

“I am uncivilised,” said Graham, not heeding him.  “That is the trouble.  I am primitive—­Paleolithic. 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 circular gallery that was glazed in from the outer weather, and so reached a circular chamber 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.

But at the top he understood, and recognised the metallic bars to which he clung.  He was in the cage under the ball of St. Paul’s.  The dome rose but a little way above the general contour of the city, into the still twilight, and sloped away, shining greasily under a few distant lights, into a circumambient ditch of darkness.

Out between the bars he looked upon the wind-clear northern sky and saw the starry constellations all unchanged.  Capella hung in the west, Vega was rising, and the seven glittering points of the Great Bear swept overhead in their stately circle about the Pole.