lood of Mr. Morris flowed. Just as some day the life
which is gathered now in the reader of this very story may also be
scattered far and wide about this world, and mingled with a thousand
alien strains, beyond all thought and tracing.

And among the descendants of this Mr. Morris was one almost as sensible
and clear-headed as his ancestor. He had just the same stout, short
frame as that ancient man of the nineteenth century, from whom his name
of Morris--he spelt it Mwres--came; he had the same half-contemptuous
expression of face. He was a prosperous person, too, as times went, and
he disliked the "new-fangled," and bothers about the future and the
lower classes, just as much as the ancestral Morris had done. He did not
read the _Times_: indeed, he did not know there ever had been a
_Times_--that institution had foundered somewhere in the intervening
gulf of years; but the phonograph machine, that talked to him as he
made his toilet of a morning, might have been the voice of a
reincarnated Blowitz when it dealt with the world's affairs. This
phonographic machine was the size and shape of a Dutch clock, and down
the front of it were electric barometric indicators, and an electric
clock and calendar, and automatic engagement reminders, and where the
clock would have been was the mouth of a trumpet. When it had news the
trumpet gobbled like a turkey, "Galloop, galloop," and then brayed out
its message as, let us say, a trumpet might bray. It would tell Mwres in
full, rich, throaty tones about the overnight accidents to the omnibus
flying-machines that plied around the world, the latest arrivals at the
fashionable resorts in Tibet, and of all the great monopolist company
meetings of the day before, while he was dressing. If Mwres did not like
hearing what it said, he had only to touch a stud, and it would choke a
little and talk about something else.

Of course his toilet differed very much from that of his ancestor. It is
doubtful which would have been the more shocked and pained to find
himself in the clothing of the other. Mwres would certainly have sooner
gone forth to the world stark naked than in the silk hat, frock coat,
grey trousers and watch-chain that had filled Mr. Morris with sombre
self-respect in the past. For Mwres there was no shaving to do: a
skilful operator had long ago removed every hair-root from his face. His
legs he encased in pleasant pink and amber garments of an air-tight
material, which with t