“Then they think I am out of my wits—that I am in an hallucination!”
“No, not that,” she returned. “But it is so very difficult for us to conceive of a whole nation living, as you say you do, on the same terms as one family, and no one trying to get ahead of another, or richer, and having neither inferiors nor superiors, but just one dead level of equality, where there is no distinction except by natural gifts and good deeds or beautiful works. It seems impossible—it seems ridiculous.”
“Yes,” I confessed, “I know that it seems so to the Americans.”
“And I must tell you something else, Mr. Homos, and I hope you won't take it amiss. The first night when you talked about Altruria here, and showed us how you had come, by way of England, and the place where Altruria ought to be on our maps, I looked them over, after you were gone, and I could make nothing of it. I have often looked at the map since, but I could never find Altruria; it was no use.”
“Why,” I said, “if you will let me have your atlas—”
She shook her head. “It would be the same again as soon as you went away.” I could not conceal my distress, and she went on: “Now, you mustn't mind what I say. I'm nothing but a silly old woman, and Eveleth would never forgive me if she could know what I've been saying.”
“Then Mrs. Strange isn't troubled, as you are, concerning me?” I asked, and I confess my anxiety attenuated my voice almost to a whisper.
“She won't admit that she is. It might be better for her if she would. But Eveleth is very true to her friends, and that—that makes me all the more anxious that she should not deceive herself.”
“Oh, Mrs. Gray!” I could not keep a certain tone of reproach out of my words.
She began to weep. “There! I knew I should hurt your feelings. But you mustn't mind what I say. I beg your pardon! I take it all back—”