“I happen to be living in the old Wheel just at present. When the turbines are installed I shall go and live in them. What earthly difference does it make?” “Absolutely none,” said the Waters, “in the earth or in the waters under the earth. But we thought turbines didn’t appeal to you.” “Not like turbines? Me? My dear fellows, turbines are good for fifteen hundred revolutions a minute—and with our power we can drive ’em at full speed. Why, there’s nothing we couldn’t grind or saw or illuminate or heat with a set of turbines! That’s to say if all the Five Watersheds are agreeable.” “Oh, we’ve been agreeable for ever so long.” “Then why didn’t you tell me?” “Don’t know. Suppose it slipped our memory.” The Waters were holding themselves in for fear of bursting with mirth. “How careless of you! You should keep abreast of the age, my dear fellows. We might have settled it long ago, if you’d only spoken. Yes, four good turbines and a neat brick penstock—eh? This old Wheel’s absurdly out of date.” “Well,” said the Cat, who after a little proud seclusion had returned to her place impenitent as ever. “Praised be Pasht and the Old Gods, that whatever may have happened _I_, at least, have preserved the Spirit of the Mill!” She looked round as expecting her faithful ally, the Black Rat; but that very week the Engineer had caught and stuffed him, and had put him in a glass case; he being a genuine old English black rat. That breed, the report says, is rapidly diminishing before the incursions of the brown variety.