“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!”