ve. Now it's a vertiginous
whirl on an asphalted road, round and round and round the Park till
the victims stagger with their brains spinning after they get out of
their cars."

The younger sage laughed. "You've been listening to the pessimism of
the dear old fellows who drive the few lingering victorias. If you'd
believe them, all these people in the motors are chauffeurs giving
their lady-friends joy-rides."

"Few?" the elder retorted. "There are lots of them. I've counted
twenty in a single round of the Park. I was proud to be in one of
them, though my horse left something to be desired in the way of youth
and beauty. But I reflected that I was not very young or beautiful
myself."

As the sages sat looking out over the dizzying whirl of the motors
they smoothed the tops of their sticks with their soft old hands, and
were silent oftener than not. The elder seemed to drowse off from the
time and place, but he was recalled by the younger saying, "It is
certainly astonishing weather for this season of the year."

The elder woke up and retorted, as if in offense: "Not at all. I've
seen the cherries in blossom at the end of October."

"They didn't set their fruit, I suppose."

"Well--no."

"Ah! Well, I saw a butterfly up here in the sheep-pasture the other
day. I could have put out my hand and caught it. It's the soft weather
that brings your victorias out like the belated butterflies. Wait till
the first cold snap, and there won't be a single victoria or butterfly
left."

"Yes," the elder assented, "we butterflies and victorias belong to the
youth of the year and the world. And the sad thing is that we won't
have our palingenesis."

"Why not?" the younger sage demanded. "What is to prevent your coming
back in two or three thousand years?"

"Well, if we came back in a year even, we shouldn't find room, for one
reason. Haven't you noticed how full to bursting the place seems?
Every street is as packed as lower Fifth Avenue used to be when the
operatives came out of the big shops for their nooning. The city's
shell hasn't been enlarged or added to, but the life in it has
multiplied past its utmost capacity. All the hotels and houses and
flats are packed. The theaters, wherever the plays are bad enough,
swarm with spectators. Along up and down every side-streets the motors
stand in rows, and at the same time the avenues are so dense with them
that you are killed at every crossing. There has been no building to