THE BUBBLE BURSTS
a book, comes towards us and lifts a curious eye at the botanist's gestures. And then———
"Scars of the past! Scars of the past! These fanciful, useless dreams!"
§ 2
There is no jerk, no sound, no hint of material shock. We are in London, and clothed in the fashion of the town. The sullen roar of London fills our ears. . . .
I see that I am standing beside an iron seat of poor design in that grey and gawky waste of asphalt—Trafalgar Square, and the botanist, with perplexity in his face, stares from me to a poor, shrivelled, dirt-lined old woman—my God! what a neglected thing she is!—who proffers a box of matches. . . .
He buys almost mechanically, and turns back to me.
"I was saying," he says, "the past rules us absolutely. These dreams———"
His sentence does not complete itself. He looks nervous and irritated.
"You have a trick at times," he says instead, "of making your suggestions so vivid———"
He takes a plunge. "If you don't mind," he says in a sort of quavering ultimatum, "we won't discuss that aspect of the question—the lady, I mean—further."
He pauses, and there still hangs a faint perplexity between us.
"But—" I begin.
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