“I didn't.”
“It works out at that.”
“You haven't met her yet.”
“I shall. It makes everything different. To tell you the truth I've rather hated this Utopia of yours at times. You mustn't mind my saying it, but there's something of the Gradgrind—”
Probably I should swear at that.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing.”
“But you spoke?”
“I was purring. I'm a Gradgrind—it's quite right—anything you can say about Herbert Spencer, vivisectors, materialistic Science or Atheists, applies without correction to me. Begbie away! But now you think better of a modern Utopia? Was the lady looking well?”
“It was her real self. Yes. Not the broken woman I met—in the real world.”