After some preliminary formalities we were taken by one of the warders, who was evidently acquainted with Kwang through his many previous visits, to a room at the end of a long corridor, where we found Mr. Stillman, who greeted us cordially but with old-fashioned dignity. His manner struck me as being very different from that of the modern Meccanians. Clearly he belonged to another generation. The room, which was about twenty feet by ten, was a bed-sitting-room, furnished with one of those contrivances which becomes a bed by night and a false cupboard by day. There was an easy chair with the usual mechanical adjustments, a table, two bedroom chairs, a small sideboard and cupboard, a few other articles of necessity and a shelf of books. There were no bolts or bars or chains--the room suggested a hospital rather than a prison. Mr. Stillman was a fine old man, and, although growing feeble in body, was still vigorous in mind. When seated he held his head erect, and looked us frankly in the face, but with a wistful expression. He had evidently been a good-looking man, but his face bore traces of long suffering. Except that he did not pace about his cell, he reminded me of a caged lion. One of the orderlies brought in a tray of tea for the three of us. Mr. Stillman said what a pleasure it was to see a human being now and then, and, turning to me, explained that, except to Mr. Kwang and the officials and the doctors, he had not spoken to anyone for five years. "Until five years ago," he said, "I was able to do a little work in the gardens, and could converse with my fellow-prisoners--patients, I mean--but only about our work, and in the presence of a warder. Still, that was some relief. Indeed, it was a great relief, for every one of the patients is a kind of brother--otherwise he would not be here. There are only a few hundreds of us left--perhaps a couple of thousands altogether--I don't know. We have about two hundred here, and this is one of the largest hospitals, or prisons, in the country--so at least I was told." "But why is conversation not permitted?" I said. "To be deprived of conversation must surely aggravate any tendency to mental instability." "The theory is that communication with our fellow-patients would hinder our recovery," he replied, with a significant smile. "But what are you supposed to be suffering from?" I said. "A mental disease known only to the Government of Meccania," he answered. "You must have heard of it. Mr. Kwang knows all about it. The real name for it is 'heresy,' but they call it _Znednettlapseiwz_. I suffer very badly from it and am incurable--at least I hope so," he added bitterly.