‘Very well, very well,’ exclaimed the stranger, in a patronising tone. ‘Seen Mr. Birley’s weaving-room, I dare say?’
‘Oh! isn’t it wonderful?’ said Coningsby.
‘A great many people.’ said the stranger, with a rather supercilious smile.
‘But after all,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘it is the machinery without any interposition of manual power that overwhelms me. It haunts me in my dreams,’ continued Coningsby; ‘I see cities peopled with machines. Certainly Manchester is the most wonderful city of modern times!’
The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm of his companion, and then picked his teeth.
‘Of all the remarkable things here,’ said Coningsby, ‘what on the whole, sir, do you look upon as the most so?’
‘In the way of machinery?’ asked the stranger.
‘In the way of machinery.’
‘Why, in the way of machinery, you know,’ said the stranger, very quietly, ‘Manchester is a dead letter.’
‘A dead letter!’ said Coningsby.