WOMEN IN A MODERN UTOPIA
there was an avenue of trees along this quay with seats, and she was sitting looking out upon the lake. . . . I hadn't seen her for ten years."
He looks about him still a little perplexed. "Now we are here," he says, "it seems as though that meeting and the talk we had must have been a dream."
He falls musing.
Presently he says: "I knew her at once. I saw her in profile. But, you know, I didn't speak to her directly. I walked past her seat and on for a little way; trying to control myself. . . . Then I turned back and sat down beside her, very quietly. She looked up at me. Everything came back—everything. For a moment or so I felt I was going to cry. . . ."
That seems to give him a sort of satisfaction even in the reminiscence.
"We talked for a time just like casual acquaintances—about the view and the weather, and things like that."
He muses again.
"In Utopia everything would have been different," I say.
"I suppose it would."
He goes on before I can say anything more.
"Then, you know, there was a pause. I had a sort of intuition that the moment was coming. So I think had she. You may scoff, of course, at these intuitions———"
I don't, as a matter of fact. Instead, I swear secretly. Always this sort of man keeps up the pretence of highly distinguished and remarkable mental
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