CHAPTER I.
MYSELF All the days of the week are alike, from their beginning to their end.
At seven in the evening one hears the clock strike gently, and then the instant tumult of the bell.

I close the desk, wipe my pen, and put it down.

I take my hat and muffler, after a glance at the mirror--a glance which shows me the regular oval of my face, my glossy hair and fine mustache.

(It is obvious that I am rather more than a workman.) I put out the light and descend from my little glass-partitioned office.

I cross the boiler-house, myself in the grip of the thronging, echoing peal which has set it free.