THE BUBBLE BURSTS
of a stupidly held umbrella. He is going to treat our little tiff about that lady as closed. He has the air of picking up our conversation again at some earlier point.
He steps into the gutter, walks round outside a negro hawker, just escapes the wheel of a hansom, and comes to my side again.
"We can't go on talking of your Utopia," he says, "in a noise and crowd like this."
We are separated by a portly man going in the opposite direction, and join again. "We can't go on talking of Utopia," he repeats, "in London. . . . Up in the mountains—and holiday-time—it was all right. We let ourselves go!"
"I've been living in Utopia," I answer, tacitly adopting his tacit proposal to drop the lady out of the question.
"At times," he says, with a queer laugh, "you've almost made me live there too."
He reflects. "It doesn't do, you know. No! And I don't know whether, after all, I want———"
We are separated again by half-a-dozen lifted flagstones, a burning brazier, and two engineers concerned with some underground business or other—in the busiest hour of the day's traffic.
"Why shouldn't it do?" I ask.
"It spoils the world of everyday to let your mind run on impossible perfections."
"I wish," I shout against the traffic, "I could smash the world of everyday."
My note becomes quarrelsome. "You may accept this as the world of reality, you may consent to be one
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