the machine get through it? Ah! the best that can be said of the machine
is that it does get through it, somehow. The friction, though seldom
such as to bring matters to a standstill, is frequent--the sort of
friction that, when it occurs in a bicycle, is just sufficient to annoy
the rider, but not sufficient to make him get off the machine and
examine the bearings. Occasionally the friction is very loud; indeed,
disturbing, and at rarer intervals it shrieks, like an omnibus brake out
of order. You know those days when you have the sensation that life is
not large enough to contain the household or the office-staff, when the
business of intercourse may be compared to the manoeuvres of two people
who, having awakened with a bad headache, are obliged to dress
simultaneously in a very small bedroom. 'After you with that towel!' in
accents of bitter, grinding politeness. 'If you could kindly move your
things off this chair!' in a voice that would blow brains out if it were
a bullet. I venture to say that you know those days. 'But,' you reply,
'such days are few. Usually...!' Well, usually, the friction, though
less intense, is still proceeding. We grow accustomed to it. We scarcely
notice it, as a person in a stuffy chamber will scarcely notice the
stuffiness. But the deteriorating influence due to friction goes on,
even if unperceived. And one morning we perceive its ravages--and write
a letter to the _Telegraph_ to inquire whether life is worth living, or
whether marriage is a failure, or whether men are more polite than
women. The proof that friction, in various and varying degrees, is
practically conscious in most households lies in the fact that when we
chance on a household where there is no friction we are startled. We
can't recover from the phenomenon. And in describing this household to
our friends, we say: 'They get on so well together,' as if we were
saying: 'They have wings and can fly! Just fancy! Did you ever hear of
such a thing?'