Next morning his reveries again pursued the old man.
The machines were clattering, the labour was monotonous, automatic. The
hands were busy at their accustomed tasks; the toothless mouth was
smiling at a diverting fancy. The air was thick with dust, and under
the high ceiling strap after strap, with hissing sound, glided quickly
from wheel to wheel, endless in number. The far corners were invisible
for the dense escaping vapours. Men emerged here and there like
phantoms, and the human voice was not heard for the incessant din of
the machines.
The old man’s fancy was at work—he had become a little boy for the
moment, his mother was a gentlewoman, and he had his hoop and his
little stick; he was playing, driving the hoop with the little stick.
He wore a white costume, his little legs were plump, bare at the
knee....
The days passed; the work went on, the fancy persisted.