Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed his austere and formal vision. Great was that wind—the myriad aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to the goddess of Sensation—of Chance, and Change. A flowing from heart to heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the wistful air wanders through a wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the passionate resolve to grow, and become—no matter what! A sighing, as eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as prone to swell into sudden roaring!
Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul's he stopped in front of an old book-shop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest acquisition—a Mores 'Utopia.' That particular edition (he assured Miltoun) was quite unprocurable—he had never sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away. This copy was in even better condition. It could hardly last another twenty years—a genuine book, a bargain. There wasn't so much movement in More as there had been a little time back.
Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on the word 'Tranibore,' began to make its way slowly towards the very centre of the volume.
“I see it's genuine,” said Miltoun.
“It's not to read, my lord,” the little man warned him: “Hardly safe to turn the pages. As I was saying—I've not had a better piece this year. I haven't really!”
“Shrewd old dreamer,” muttered Miltoun; “the Socialists haven't got beyond him, even now.”
The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of Thomas More.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your lordship's very strong on politics?”
Miltoun smiled.
“I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores dream. But my machinery will be different. I shall begin at the top.”