“By all means. Go where you will. Your gray uniform shows you to be an unascribed stranger, and every policeman has your photograph in his thumb-book by now. Only, remember that you must decline to enter into conversation with anyone who may accost you. Please remember this point scrupulously, for your own sake. But, Arnold, do you know, I think you can spend the rest of your day very profitably in learning to read.” “Learn in a day?” “To some extent. There are only thirty-five principal characters, and all the sub-characters are readily discernible as coming under these heads. I believe Elizabeth has an old spelling-book, and she will be delighted to instruct you.” The idea aroused his enthusiasm, and a few minutes later Elizabeth had begun to give me my lesson. By supper time I had already mastered the elements, and we continued to study in the evening under the soft solar light, which, issuing from small, shaded, glass-covered apertures in the walls, made the room as bright as day. Soon after dinner the dumb-waiter shaft clicked open and a package lay there. Inside was my overcoat. At least, it was meant for me. But instead of the fine cheviot, I discovered a wretched mixture of cotton and shoddy. I was indignant. David advised me to do nothing. “A stranger sometimes gets poor service,” he explained. “It is a deliberate fraud, then?” I demanded. He placed his hand restrainingly on my arm. “Is it worth while quarreling with the Wool Boss before you go to the Council?” he asked. He went on to explain that each industry was autonomous, and had its own boss, elected annually by the workers, in theory, but for life in practice. The Wool Boss, like the other bosses, received one per cent upon the value of every article made by his department. “At present our social organization is a little upset,” he explained again. “When the Russian troubles are ended we shall resume our normal life. There will be more spaciousness, more freedom ... liberty will be enlarged....” We went to bed early. I was grateful to discover that the old-fashioned bed had not been sent into limbo. But then the bed, of course, antedates history. David apologized for mentioning bedtime. “Nine is the curfew hour,” he explained. “At nine-half the solar light goes out. It is only a temporary restriction until—” Again he checked himself. I mused so long that the solar light, which flooded the bedroom within and made London a vivid picture in a black frame without, was suddenly turned off, leaving me to grope my way into bed in the darkness. I lay thinking of Esther, who had died so long ago, and I knew that when the first bewilderment of the new life had passed away my loss would seem as unbearable as before. I was as helpless as a savage in this fantastic city. It seemed incredible that I had been groping in the cellar that same morning.