He had given way to idealism. It was the madness of a moment. It was listening to Varensky that had worked the mischief. Varensky had said something about idealism. What was it? That idealism was the vanishing point—the last outpost between Man and Eternity. His words came back.
“When you gaze up a railroad track, there's always a point in the infinite distance where, just before they vanish, the parallel rails seem to join. If a train were ever to reach that point, it would mean death. Life's like that—a track along which we travel on the parallel rails of possibility and desire. The lure of the idealist is to overtake the illusion, where possibility and desire seem to merge, and the safety of the journey ends.”
For him the safety of the journey had ended the moment it had started. If Varensky had meant anything by the vanishing point, he had meant that death is the unconscious goal of all idealists. Hind-wood shrugged his shoulders. It seemed highly probable when you took Santa with you on your travels.
The smell of the sea was in the air. They were slowing down, grinding their way to the docks through the town of Dover.
He didn't want to see her. He would make no effort to find her. She might have been prevented from joining him—perhaps arrested.
After the train had halted, he took his time. No one whom he recognized was on the platform. Directing a porter to attend to his baggage, he went quickly to the embarkation office to get his permit for going aboard. As he was entering, he felt his arm touched timidly, and turned.
“I'm here.”
“I see you are.”
“Didn't you expect me?”
He made an effort to act courteously. “Of course. There are formalities to be gone through. You'd better stick close to me. Don't attract attention. Let me do the talking.”