But I should go back to my botanist¹ in a state of emotional relaxation². At first I should not heed³ the fact that he, too, had been in some manner stirred. “I have seen him,” I should say, needlessly, and seem to be on the verge⁴ of telling the untellable. Then I should fade off into: “It’s the strangest thing.”

He would interrupt me with his own preoccupation. “You know,” he would say, “I’ve seen someone.”

I should pause and look at him.

“She is in this world,” he says.

“Who is in this world?”

“Mary!”

I have not heard her name before, but I understand, of course, at once.

“I saw her,” he explains.

“Saw her?”

“I’m certain it was her. Certain. She was far away across those gardens near here — and before I had recovered from my amazement⁵ she had gone! But it was Mary.”

He takes my arm. “You know I did not understand this,” he says. “I did not really understand that when you said Utopia, you meant I was to meet her — in happiness.”

“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 spoke⁶?”

“I was purring. I’m a Gradgrind — it’s quite right — anything you can say about Herbert Spencer, vivisectors, materialistic⁷ Science or Atheists, applies without correction to me. Begbie away! But now you think better of a modern Utopia? Was the lady looking well?”

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