There were little benches placed here and there on the street. We sat down.
“Improved, isn’t it,” said man in asbestos, “since the days when you remember it?”
He seemed to speak quite proudly.
I gasped out a question.
“Where are the street cars and the motors?”
“Oh, done away with long ago,” he said; “how awful they must have been. The noise of them!” and his asbestos clothes rustled with a shudder.
“But how do you get about?”
“We don’t,” he answered. “Why should we? It’s just the same being here as being anywhere else.” He looked at me with an infinity of dreariness in his face.
A thousand questions surged into my mind at once. I asked one of the simplest.
“But how do you get back and forwards to your work?”