MY UTOPIAN SELF
tunic with the purple band that I have already begun to consider the proper Utopian clothing for grave men, and his face is clean shaven. We forget to speak at first in the intensity of our mutual inspection. When at last I do gain my voice it is to say something quite different from the fine, significant openings of my premeditated dialogues.
"You have a pleasant room," I remark, and look about a little disconcerted because there is no fireplace for me to put my back against, or hearthrug to stand upon. He pushes me a chair, into which I plump, and we hang over an immensity of conversational possibilities.
"I say," I plunge, "what do you think of me? You don't think I'm an imposter?"
"Not now that I have seen you. No."
"Am I so like you?"
"Like me and your story—exactly."
"You haven't any doubt left?" I ask.
"Not in the least, since I saw you enter. You come from the world beyond Sirius, twin to this. Eh?"
"And you don't want to know how I got here?"
"I've ceased even to wonder how I got here," he says, with a laugh that echoes mine.
He leans back in his chair, and I in mine, and the absurd parody of our attitude strikes us both.
"Well?" we say, simultaneously, and laugh together.
I will confess this meeting is more difficult even than I anticipated.
221
