Lincoln, who had stood watching Graham’s face throughout the conversation, intervened.  “There are others,” he said in an undertone.

The Surveyor-General of schools gesticulated himself away.  “Perhaps,” said Lincoln, intercepting a casual glance, “you would like to know some of these ladies?”

The daughter of the Manager of the Piggeries was a particularly charming little person with red hair and animated blue eyes.  Lincoln left him awhile to converse with her, and she displayed herself as quite an enthusiast for the “dear old days,” as she called them, that had seen the beginning of his trance.  As she talked she smiled, and her eyes smiled in a manner that demanded reciprocity.

“I have tried,” she said, “countless times—­to imagine those old romantic days.  And to you—­they are memories.  How strange and crowded the world must seem to you!  I have seen photographs and pictures of the past, the little isolated houses built of bricks made out of burnt mud and all black with soot from your fires, the railway bridges, the simple advertisements, the solemn savage Puritanical men in strange black coats and those tall hats of theirs, iron railway trains on iron bridges overhead, horses and cattle, and even dogs running half wild about the streets.  And suddenly, you have come into this!”

“Into this,” said Graham.

“Out of your life—­out of all that was familiar.”

“The old life was not a happy one,” said Graham.  “I do not regret that.”

She looked at him quickly.  There was a brief pause.  She sighed encouragingly.  “No?”

“No,” said Graham.  “It was a little life—­and unmeaning.  But this—­We thought the world complex and crowded and civilised enough.  Yet I see—­although in this world I am barely four days old—­looking back on my own time, that it was a queer, barbaric time—­the mere beginning of this new order.  The mere beginning of this new order.  You will find it hard to understand how little I know.”

“You may ask me what you like,” she said, smiling at him.

“Then tell me who these people are.  I’m still very much in the dark about them.  It’s puzzling.  Are there any Generals?”

“Men in hats and feathers?”

“Of course not.  No.  I suppose they are the men who control the great public businesses.  Who is that distinguished looking man?”

“That?  He’s a most important officer.  That is Morden.  He is managing director of the Antibilious Pill Department.  I have heard that his workers sometimes turn out a myriad myriad pills a day in the twenty-four hours.  Fancy a myriad myriad!”

“A myriad myriad.  No wonder he looks proud,” said Graham.  “Pills!  What a wonderful time it is!  That man in purple?”

“He is not quite one of the inner circle, you know.  But we like him.  He is really clever and very amusing.  He is one of the heads of the Medical Faculty of our London University.  All medical men, you know, wear that purple.  But, of course, people who are paid by fees for doing something—­” She smiled away the social pretensions of all such people.