A MODERN UTOPIA
"Need it go on?"
"What do you mean?"
"Lady in trouble," I say. "Knight at hand. Why not stop this dismal grizzling and carry her off?" (You figure the heroic sweep of the arm that belongs to the Voice.) I positively forget for the moment that we are in Utopia at all.
"You mean?"
"Take her away from him! What's all this emotion of yours worth if it isn't equal to that!"
Positively he seems aghast at me.
"Do you mean elope with her?"
"It seems a most suitable case."
For a space he is silent, and we go on through the trees. A Utopian tram-car passes and I see his face, poor, bitted wretch! looking pinched and scared in its trailing glow of light.
"That's all very well in a novel," he says. "But how could I go back to my laboratory, mixed classes with young ladies, you know, after a thing like that? How could we live and where could we live? We might have a house in London, but who would call upon us?. . . Besides, you don't know her. She is not the sort of woman. . . . Don't think I'm timid or conventional. Don't think I don't feel. . . . Feel! You don't know what it is to feel in a case of this sort. . . ."
He halts and then flies out viciously: "Ugh! There are times when I could strangle him with my hands."
Which is nonsense.
He flings out his lean botanising hands in an impotent gesture.
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