“Asbestos!” I said, “this, then, is your coming Civilisation, your
millennium. This dull, dead thing, with the work and the burden gone
out of life, and with them all the joy and sweetness of it. For the old
struggle—mere stagnation, and in place of danger and death, the dull
monotony of security and the horror of an unending decay! Give me
back,” I cried, and I flung wide my arms to the dull air, “the old life
of danger and stress, with its hard toil and its bitter chances, and
its heartbreaks. I see its value! I know its worth! Give me no rest,” I
cried aloud—
“Yes, but give a rest to the rest of the corridor!” cried an angered
voice that broke in upon my exultation.
Suddenly my sleep had gone.
I was back again in the room of my hotel, with the hum of the wicked,
busy old world all about me, and loud in my ears the voice of the
indignant man across the corridor.
“Quit your blatting, you infernal blatherskite,” he was calling. “Come
down to earth.”