in fifty years--at the end of the
century? What will the offspring of these quivering, twitching, highly
strung men and women be like? _Quo vadis, Americane?_

Already there are antidotes or remedies for this growing
evil--sanatoria where the worn-out over-worked are compelled to seek
refuge, asylums of repose for those who have long lost the art of
enjoying it. More useful, perhaps, are the facilities for getting
healthy exercise which are offered by athletic clubs, gymnasia, and
the squash courts and tennis courts now being laid out on the tops of
so many of the best houses. But these are only trifling against the
magnitude of the menacing evil. Thousands have not the time to enjoy
them, and must pay the penalty of the pace of their progress in the
City of Unrest.

XV

THE MILLION-MASTER IN THE CITY OF UNREST

Seven-thirty o'clock: the coffee and toast had been placed by the
valet on the table beside his bed; the warm water was already running
into the bath in the adjoining room; three suits of clothes, carefully
brushed and ironed, were laid on the sofa when he was called. He
seemed to be awake all of a sudden--quite awake. As he was called, a
young man came into the room with a bundle of newspapers. "Let me
see," said Mr. X., "I think I can take half an hour extra this
morning--read away;" and then the young man began reading rapidly from
the papers. He had from long training learned to know what interested
the boss, and read selections from one paper after another which he
had previously gone over--some closing prices of particular stocks
first, then some foreign and general news summary, and then X. asked
him to read particulars of what he wanted to learn more about. After
about fifteen minutes he had had enough, and one of his secretaries,
with a bundle of letters in one hand and a notebook in the other, came
in. As he read the letters, X. dictated, or mostly just indicated, the
replies; they were all business letters. Then his place was taken by
another. His letters were mostly invitations, charitable appeals,
letters from his steward and the head of his stables at Lakewood, from
the skipper of his yacht, from dealers who had pictures that he ought
to buy, from the caretaker of his house in Newport, and letters from
house-agents in London about a house he wanted there for the
Coronation. At eight he took his bath, and while drying and dressing
the litany of letters and responses continued, punctuat