htn't."

"Don't be an ass, Franklyn," I said firmly. "You are bound to catch the
germ sooner or later. It will impress you immensely."

"It's all over London," he whimpered. "It's too much; it will hit us
hard. It's too much."

"Listen to me," I said. "I have come here to see you about business. Now
sit down in your chair; I won't touch you. I want you to get me a
bungalow by the sea with a garden as soon as possible. I am going to
sell my house."

"Sell your house!" He became calmer. "That is very extraordinary, Dr.
Harden."

"I am going out of London."

He was astonished.

"But your house--in Harley Street--so central...." he stammered. "I
don't understand. Are you giving up your practice?"

"Of course."

"At your age, Dr. Harden?"

"What has age got to do with it? There is no such thing as age."

He stared. Then his eyes turned to Alice.

"No such thing as age?" he murmured helplessly. "But surely you are not
going to sell; you have the best house in Harley Street. Its commanding
position ... in the centre of that famous locality...."

"Do you think that any really sane man would live in the centre of
Harley Street," I asked calmly. "Is he likely to find any peace in that
furnace of crude worldly ambitions? But all that is already a thing of
the past. In a few weeks, Franklyn, Harley Street will be deserted."

"Deserted?" His eyes rolled.

"Deserted," I said sternly. "In its upper rooms there may remain a few
Immortals, but the streets will be silent. The great business of
sickness, which occupies the attention of a third of the world and
furnishes the main topic of conversation in every home, will be gone.
Sell my house, Franklyn, and find me a bungalow on the South Coast
facing the sea."

I turned away and went towards the door, Alice followed me. The house
agent sat in helpless amazement. He filled me with a sense of nausea. He
seemed so gross, so mindless.

"A bungalow," he whispered.

"Yes. Let us have long, low, simple rooms and a garden where we may grow
enough to live on. The age of material complexity and noise is at an
end. We need peace."

Strolling along at a slow pace, we went down Oxford Street towards the
Marble Arch. It was dusk. The newsboys were howling at every corner and
everyone had a paper. Little groups of people stood on the pavements
discussing the news. In the roadway the stream of traffic was incessant.
The huge motor-buses thundered and swayed along, with their lo