And thence the botanist and I walk on to the apartments that have been set aside for us, and into which the poor little rolls of the property that has accumulated about us in Utopia, our earthly raiment, and a change of linen and the like, have already been delivered. As we go I find I have little to say to my companion, until presently I am struck by a transitory wonder that he should have so little to say to me.
“I can still hardly realise,” I say, “that I am going to see myself—as I might have been.”
“No,” he says, and relapses at once into his own preoccupation.
For a moment my wonder as to what he should be thinking about brings me near to a double self-forgetfulness.
I realise we are at the entrance of our hotel before I can formulate any further remark.
“This is the place,” I say.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
My Utopian Self
§ 1
It falls to few of us to interview our better selves. My Utopian self is, of course, my better self—according to my best endeavours—and I must confess myself fully alive to the difficulties of the situation. When I came to this Utopia I had no thought of any such intimate self-examination.
The whole fabric of that other universe sways for a moment as I come into his room, into his clear and ordered work-room. I am trembling. A figure rather taller than myself stands against the light.