THE BUBBLE BURSTS
"Well?" I say, standing before him.
"I've been in the gardens on the river terrace," he answers, "hoping I might see her again."
"Nothing better to do?"
"Nothing in the world."
"You'll have your double back from India to-morrow. Then you'll have conversation."
"I don't want it," he replies compactly.
I shrug my shoulders, and he adds, "At least with him."
I let myself down into a seat beside him.
For a time I sit restfully enjoying his companionable silence, and thinking fragmentarily of those samurai and their Rules. I entertain something of the satisfaction of a man who has finished building a bridge; I feel that I have joined together things that I had never joined before. My Utopia seems real to me, very real; I can believe in it until the metal chair-back gives to my shoulder blades, and Utopian sparrows twitter and hop before my feet. I have a pleasant moment of unhesitating self-satisfaction; I feel a shameless exultation to be there. For a moment I forget the consideration the botanist demands; the mere pleasure of completeness, of holding and controlling all the threads, possesses me.
"You will persist in believing," I say with an aggressive expository note, "that if you meet this lady she will be a person with the memories and sentiments of her double on earth. You think she will understand and pity, and perhaps love you. Nothing of the sort is the case." I repeat with confident rudeness, "Nothing of the sort is the case. Things are different alto-
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