"We're under the tyranny of to-morrow--and
happiness is impossible."
"May I look at your bedroom?" I asked.
"Certainly," he assented.
I pushed open the door he indicated. At first glimpse I was disappointed.
The big room looked like a section of a hospital ward. It wasn't until
I had taken a second and very careful look at the tiled floor, walls,
ceiling, that I noted that those plain smooth tiles were of the very
finest, were probably of his own designing, certainly had been imported
from some great Dutch or German kiln. Not an inch of drapery, not a
picture, nothing that could hold dust or germs anywhere; a square of
sanitary matting by the bed; another square opposite an elaborate
exercising machine. The bed was of the simplest metallic construction--but
I noted that the metal was the finest bronze. On it was a thin, hard
mattress. You could wash the big room down and out with the hose, without
doing any damage.
"Quite a contrast," said I, glancing from the one room to the other.
"My architect is a crank on sanitation," he explained, from his lounge.
I noted that the windows were huge--to admit floods of light--and that
they were hermetically sealed so that the air should be only the pure air
supplied from the ventilating apparatus.
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