8. Early Morning in Utopia

by H.G. Wells

　　Section 1

　　Mr. Barnstaple awakened slowly out of profound slumber.

　　He had a vague feeling that a very delightful and wonderful dreamwas slipping from him. He tried to keep on with the dream and notto open his eyes. It was about a great world of beautiful peoplewho had freed themselves from a thousand earthly troubles. But itdissolved and faded from his mind. It was not often nowadays thatdreams came to Mr. Barnstaple. He lay very still with his eyesclosed, reluctantly coming awake to the affairs of every day.

　　The cares and worries of the last fortnight resumed their sway.Would he ever be able to get away for a holiday by himself? Then heremembered that he had already got his valise stowed away in theYellow Peril. But surely that was not last night; that was the nightbefore last, and he had started--he remembered now starting and thelittle thrill of getting through the gate before Mrs. Barnstaplesuspected anything. He opened his eyes and fixed them on a whiteceiling, trying to recall that journey. He remembered turning intothe Camberwell New Road and the bright exhilaration of the morning,Vauxhall Bridge and that nasty tangle of traffic at Hyde ParkCorner. He always maintained that the west of London was far moredifficult for motoring than the east. Then--had he gone to Uxbridge?No. He recalled the road to Slough and then came a blank in hismind.

　　What a very good ceiling this was! Not a crack nor a stain!

　　But how had he spent the rest of the day? He must have got somewherebecause here he was in a thoroughly comfortable bed--an excellentbed. With a thrush singing. He had always maintained that a goodthrush could knock spots off a nightingale, but this thrush was aperfect Caruso. And another answering it! In July! Pangbourne andCaversham were wonderful places for nightingales. In June. But thiswas July--and thrushes.... Across these drowsy thought-phantomscame the figure of Mr. Rupert Catskill, hands on hips, face andhead thrust forward speaking, saying astonishing things. To a nakedseated figure with a grave intent face. And other figures. One witha face like the Delphic Sibyl. Mr. Barnstaple began to remember thatin some way he had got himself mixed up with a week-end party atTaplow Court. Now had this speech been given at Taplow Court? AtTaplow Court they wear clothes. But perhaps the aristocracy inretirement and privacy--?

　　Utopia?... But was it possible?

　　Mr. Barnstaple sat up in his bed in a state of extreme amazement."Impossible!" he said. He was lying in a little loggia half open tothe air. Between the slender pillars of fluted glass he saw a rangeof snow-topped mountains, and in the foreground a great cluster oftall spikes bearing deep red flowers. The bird was still singing--aglorified thrush, in a glorified world. Now he rememberedeverything. Now it was all clear. The sudden twisting of the car,the sound like the snapping of a fiddle string and--Utopia! Now hehad it all, from the sight of sweet dead Greenlake to the bringingin of Lord Barralonga under the strange unfamiliar stars. It wasno dream. He looked at his hand on the exquisitely fine coverlet. Hefelt his rough chin. It was a world real enough for shaving--and fora very definite readiness for breakfast. Very--for he had missed hissupper. And as if in answer to his thought a smiling girl appearedascending the steps to his sleeping-place and bearing a little tray.After all, there was much to be said for Mr. Burleigh. To his swiftstatesmanship it was that Mr. Barnstaple owed this morning cup oftea.

　　"Good morning," said Mr. Barnstaple.

　　"Why not?" said the young Utopian, and put down his tea and smiledat him in a motherly fashion and departed.

　　"Why not a good morning, I suppose," said Mr. Barnstaple andmeditated for a moment, chin on knees, and then gave his attentionto the bread-and-butter and tea.

　　Section 2

　　The little dressing-room in which he found his clothes lying justas he had dumped them overnight, was at once extraordinarily simpleand extraordinarily full of interest for Mr. Barnstaple. He paddledabout it humming as he examined it.

　　The bath was much shallower than an ordinary earthly bath;apparently the Utopians did not believe in lying down and stewing.And the forms of everything were different, simpler and moregraceful. On earth he reflected art was largely wit. The artisthad a certain limited selection of obdurate materials and certainneeds, and his work was a clever reconciliation of the obduracy and thenecessity and of the idiosyncrasy of the substance to the aestheticpreconceptions of the human mind. How delightful, for example, wasthe earthly carpenter dealing cleverly with the grain and characterof this wood or that. But here the artist had a limitless control ofmaterial, and that element of witty adaptation had gone out of hiswork. His data were the human mind and body. Everything in thislittle room was unobtrusively but perfectly convenient--and difficultto misuse. If you splashed too much a thoughtful outer rim tidiedthings up for you.

　　In a tray by the bath was a very big fine sponge. So either Utopiansstill dived for sponges or they grew them or trained them (who couldtell?) to come up of their own accord.

　　As he set out his toilet things a tumbler was pushed off a glassshelf on to the floor and did not break. Mr. Barnstaple in anexperimental mood dropped it again and still it did not break.

　　He could not find taps at first though there was a big washing basinas well as a bath. Then he perceived a number of studs on the wallswith black marks that might be Utopian writing. He experimented. Hefound very hot water and then very cold water filling his bath, afountain of probably soapy warm water, and other fluids,--one with anodour of pine and one with a subdued odour of chlorine. The Utopiancharacters on these studs set him musing for a time; they were thefirst writing he had seen; they appeared to be word characters,but whether they represented sounds or were greatly simplifiedhieroglyphics he could not imagine. Then his mind went off at atangent in another direction because the only metal apparent in thisdressing-room was gold. There was, he noted, an extraordinary lot ofgold in the room. It was set and inlaid in gold. The soft yellowlines gleamed and glittered. Gold evidently was cheap in Utopia.Perhaps they knew how to make it.

　　He roused himself to the business of his toilet. There was nolooking-glass in the room, but when he tried what he thought wasthe handle of a cupboard door, he found himself opening a triplefull-length mirror. Afterwards he was to discover that there wereno displayed mirrors in Utopia; Utopians, he was to learn, thoughtit indecent to be reminded of themselves in that way. The Utopianmethod was to scrutinize oneself, see that one was all right andthen forget oneself for the rest of the day. He stood now surveyinghis pyjamaed and unshaven self with extreme disfavour. Why dorespectable citizens favour such ugly pink-striped pyjamas? Whenhe unpacked his nail-brush and tooth-brush, shaving-brush andwashing-glove, they seemed to him to have the coarseness of a popularburlesque. His tooth-brush was a particularly ignoble instrument.He wished now he had bought a new one at the chemist's shop nearVictoria Station.

　　And what nasty queer things his clothes were!

　　He had a fantastic idea of adopting Utopian ideas of costume, buta reflective moment before his mirror restrained him. Then heremembered that he had packed a silk tennis shirt and flannels.Suppose he wore those, without a collar stud or tie--and wentbare-footed?

　　He surveyed his feet. As feet went on earth they were not unsightlyfeet. But on earth they had been just wasted.

　　Section 3

　　A particularly clean and radiant Mr. Barnstaple, white-clad,bare-necked and bare-footed, presently emerged into the Utopiansunrise. He smiled, stretched his arms and took a deep breath ofthe sweet air. Then suddenly his face became hard and resolute.

　　From another little sleeping house not two hundred yards away FatherAmerton was emerging. Intuitively Mr. Barnstaple knew he meanteither to forgive or be forgiven for the overnight quarrel. It wouldbe a matter of chance whether he would select the role of offenderor victim; what was certain was that he would smear a dreary mess ofemotional personal relationship over the jewel-like clearness andbrightness of the scene. A little to the right of Mr. Barnstaple andin front of him were wide steps leading down towards the lake. Threestrides and he was going down these steps two at a time. It may havebeen his hectic fancy, but it seemed to him that he heard the voiceof Father Amerton, "Mr. _Barn_--staple," in pursuit.

　　Mr. Barnstaple doubled and doubled again and crossed a bridge acrossan avalanche gully, a bridge with huge masonry in back and roofand with delicate pillars of prismatic glass towards the lake. Thesunlight entangled in these pillars broke into splashes of redand blue and golden light. Then at a turfy corner gay with bluegentians, he narrowly escaped a collision with Mr. Rupert Catskill.Mr. Catskill was in the same costume that he had worn on theprevious day except that he was without his grey top hat. He walkedwith his hands clasped behind him.

　　"Hullo!" he said. "What's the hurry? We seem to be the first peopleup."

　　"I saw Father Amerton--"

　　"That accounts for it. You were afraid of being caught up in aservice, Matins or Prime or whatever he calls it. Wise man to run.He shall pray for the lot of us. Me too."

　　He did not wait for any endorsement from Mr. Barnstaple, but went ontalking.

　　"You have slept well? What did you think of the old fellow'sanswer to my speech. Eh? Evasive cliches. When in doubt, abusethe plaintiff's attorney. We don't agree with him because we havebad hearts."

　　"What old fellow do you mean?"

　　"The worthy gentleman who spoke after me."

　　"Urthred! But he's not forty."

　　"He's seventy-three. He told us afterwards. They live long here, alingering business. Our lives are a fitful hectic fever from theirpoint of view. But as Tennyson said, 'Better fifty years of Europethan a cycle of Cathay!' H'm? He evaded my points. This is LotusLand, Sunset Land; we shan't be thanked for disturbing itsslumbers."

　　"I doubt their slumbers."

　　"Perhaps the Socialist bug has bit you too. Yes--I see it has!Believe me this is the most complete demonstration of decadence itwould be possible to imagine. Complete. And we _shall_ disturb theirslumbers, never fear. Nature, you will see, is on our side--in a wayno one has thought of yet."

　　"But I don't see the decadence," said Mr. Barnstaple.

　　"None so blind as those who won't see. It's everywhere. Their largeflushed pseudo-health. Like fatted cattle. And their treatment ofBarralonga. They don't know how to treat him. They don't even arresthim. They've never arrested anyone for a thousand years. He careersthrough their land, killing and slaying and frightening anddisturbing and they're flabbergasted, Sir, simply flabbergasted.It's like a dog running amuck in a world full of sheep. If he hadn'thad a side-slip I believe he would be hooting and snorting andcareering along now--killing people. They've lost the instinct ofsocial defence."

　　"I wonder."

　　"A very good attitude of mind. If indulged in, in moderation. Butwhen your wondering is over, you will begin to see that I am right.H'm? Ah! There on that terrace! Isn't that my Lord Barralonga andhis French acquaintance? It is. Inhaling the morning air. I thinkwith your permission I will go on and have a word with them. Whichway did you say Father Amerton was? I don't want to disturb hisdevotions. This way? Then if I go to the right--"

　　He grimaced amiably over his shoulder.

　　Section 4

　　Mr. Barnstaple came upon two Utopians gardening. They had two lightsilvery wheelbarrows, and they were cutting out old wood andoverblown clusters from a line of thickets that sprawled over arough-heaped ridge of rock and foamed with crimson and deep redroses. These gardeners had great leather gauntlets and aprons oftanned skin, and they carried hooks and knives.

　　Mr. Barnstaple had never before seen such roses as they were tendinghere; their fragrance filled the air. He did not know that doubleroses could be got in mountains; bright red single sorts he had seenhigh up in Switzerland, but not such huge loose-flowered monsters asthese. They dwarfed their leaves. Their wood was in long, thorny,snaky-red streaked stems that writhed wide and climbed to therocky lumps over which they grew. Their great petals fell like redsnow and like drifting moths and like blood upon the soft soil thatsheltered amidst the brown rocks.

　　"You are the first Utopians I have actually seen at work," he said.

　　"This isn't our work," smiled the nearer of the two, a fair-haired,freckled, blue-eyed youth. "But as we are for these roses we haveto keep them in order."

　　"Are they your roses?"

　　"Many people think these double mountain roses too much trouble anda nuisance with their thorns and sprawling branches, and many peoplethink only the single sorts of roses ought to be grown in these highplaces and that this lovely sort ought to be left to die out uphere. Are you for our roses?"

　　"Such roses as these?" said Mr. Barnstaple. "Altogether."

　　"Good! Then just bring me up my barrow closer for all this litter.We're responsible for the good behaviour of all this thicketreaching right down there almost to the water."

　　"And you have to see to it yourselves?"

　　"Who else?"

　　"But couldn't you get someone--pay someone to see to it for you?"

　　"Oh, hoary relic from the ancient past!" the young man replied. "Oh,fossil ignoramus from a barbaric universe! Don't you realize thatthere is no working class in Utopia? It died out fifteen hundredyears or so ago. Wages-slavery, pimping and so forth are done with.We read about them in books. Who loves the rose must serve therose--himself."

　　"But you work."

　　"Not for wages. Not because anyone else loves or desires somethingelse and is too lazy to serve it or get it himself. We work, partof the brain, part of the will, of Utopia."

　　"May I ask at what?"

　　"I explore the interior of our planet. I study high-pressurechemistry. And my friend--"

　　He interrogated his friend, whose dark face and brown eyes appearedsuddenly over a foam of blossom. "I do Food."

　　"A cook?"

　　"Of sorts. Just now I am seeing to your Earthling dietary. It's mostinteresting and curious--but I should think rather destructive.I plan your meals.... I see you look anxious, but I saw to yourbreakfast last night." He glanced at a minute wrist-watch under thegauntlet of his gardening glove. "It will be ready in about an hour.How was the early tea?"

　　"Excellent," said Mr. Barnstaple.

　　"Good," said the dark young man. "I did my best. I hope thebreakfast will be as satisfactory. I had to fly two hundredkilometres for a pig last night and kill it and cut it up myself,and find out how to cure it. Eating bacon has gone out of fashion inUtopia. I hope you will find my rashers satisfactory."

　　"It seems very rapid curing--for a rasher," said Mr. Barnstaple."We could have done without it."

　　"Your spokesman made such a point of it."

　　The fair young man struggled out of the thicket and wheeled hisbarrow away. Mr. Barnstaple wished the dark young man "Goodmorning."

　　"Why shouldn't it be?" asked the dark young man.

　　Section 5

　　He discovered Ridley and Penk approaching him. Ridley's face and earwere still adorned with sticking-plaster and his bearing was eagerand anxious. Penk followed a little way behind him, holding one handto the side of his face. Both were in their professional dress,white-topped caps, square-cut leather coats and black gaiters; theyhad made no concessions to Utopian laxity.

　　Ridley began to speak as soon as he judged Mr. Barnstaple was withinearshot.

　　"You don't 'appen to know, Mister, where these 'ere decadents shovedour car?"

　　"I thought your car was all smashed up."

　　"Not a Rolls-Royce--not like that. Wind-screen, mud-guards and theon-footboard perhaps. We went over sideways. I want to 'ave a look atit. And I didn't turn the petrol off. The carburettor was leaking abit. My fault. I 'adn't been careful enough with the strainer. If sheruns out of petrol, where's one to get more of it in this blastedElysium? I ain't seen a sign anywhere. I know if I don't get thatcar into running form before Lord Barralonga wants it there's goingto be trouble."

　　Mr. Barnstaple had no idea where the cars were.

　　"'Aven't you a car of your own?" asked Ridley reproachfully.

　　"I have. But I've never given it a thought since I got out of it."

　　"Owner-driver," said Ridley bitterly.

　　"Anyhow, I can't help you find your cars. Have you asked any of theUtopians?"

　　"Not us. We don't like the style of 'em," said Ridley.

　　"They'll tell you."

　　"And watch us--whatever we do to our cars. They don't get a chanceof looking into a Rolls-Royce every day in the year. Next thing weshall have them driving off in 'em. I don't like the place, and Idon't like these people. They're queer. They ain't decent. Hislordship says they're a lot of degenerates, and it seems to me hislordship is about right. I ain't a Puritan, but all this runningabout without clothes is a bit too thick for me. I wish I knew wherethey'd stowed those cars."

　　Mr. Barnstaple was considering Penk. "You haven't hurt your face?"he asked.

　　"Nothing to speak of," said Penk. "I suppose we ought to begetting on."

　　Ridley looked at Penk and then at Mr. Barnstaple. "He's had a bitof a contoosion," he remarked, a faint smile breaking through hissourness.

　　"We better be getting on if we're going to find those cars," saidPenk.

　　A grin of intense enjoyment appeared upon Ridley's face. "'E'sbumped against something."

　　"Oh--_shut it_!" said Penk.

　　But the thing was too good to keep back. "One of these girls'it 'im."

　　"What do you mean?" said Mr. Barnstaple. "You haven't been takingliberties--?"

　　"I 'ave _not_," said Penk. "But as Mr. Ridley's been so obliging asto start the topic I suppose I got to tell wot 'appened. It jestillustrates the uncertainties of being among a lot of ‘arf-savage,‘arf-crazy people, like we got among."

　　Ridley smiled and winked at Mr. Barnstaple. "Regular 'ard cloutshe gave 'im. Knocked him over. 'E put 'is 'and on 'er shoulderand _clop_! over 'e went. Never saw anything like it."

　　"Rather unfortunate," said Mr. Barnstaple.

　　"It all 'appened in a second like."

　　"It's a pity it happened."

　　"Don't you go making any mistake about it, Mister, and don't you gorunning off with any false ideas about it," said Penk. "I don'twant the story to get about--it might do me a lot of 'arm with Mr.Burleigh. Pity Mr. Ridley couldn't 'old 'is tongue. What provokedher I do not know. She came into my room as I was getting up, andshe wasn't what you might call wearing anything, and she looked abit saucy, to my way of thinking, and--well, something come intomy head to say to her, something--well, just the least little bitsporty, so to speak. One can't always control one's thoughts--canone? A man's a man. If a man's expected to be civil in his privatethoughts to girls without a stitch, so to speak--_well_! I dunno. Ireally do not know. It's against nature. I never said it, whateverit was I thought of. Mr. Ridley 'ere will bear me out. I never saida word to her. I 'adn't opened my lips when she hit me. Knocked meover, she did--like a ninepin. Didn't even seem angry about it. A'ook-'it--sideways. It was surprise as much as anything floored me."

　　"But Ridley says you touched her."

　　"Laid me 'and on 'er shoulder perhaps, in a sort of fatherly way. Asshe was turning to go--not being sure whether I wasn't going to speakto her, I admit. And there you are! If I'm to get into troublebecause I was wantonly 'it--"

　　Penk conveyed despair of the world by an eloquent gesture.

　　Mr. Barnstaple considered. "I shan't make trouble," he said. "Butall the same I think we must all be very careful with theseUtopians. Their ways are not our ways."

　　"Thank God!" said Ridley. "The sooner I get out of this world backto Old England, the better I shall like it."

　　He turned to go.

　　"You should 'ear 'is lordship," said Ridley over his shoulder. "'Esays it's just a world of bally degenerates--rotten degenerates--infact, if you'll excuse me--@ * @ * ! * ! * $ * $ * ! degenerates.Eh? That about gets 'em."

　　"The young woman's arm doesn't seem to have been very degenerate,"said Mr. Barnstaple, standing the shock bravely.

　　"Don't it?" said Ridley bitterly. "That's all _you_ know. Why! ifthere's one sign more sure than another about degeneration it'swhen women take to knocking men about. It's against instink. Inany respectable decent world such a thing couldn't possibly 'ave'appened. No 'ow!"

　　"No--'ow," echoed Penk.

　　"In _our_ world, such a girl would jolly soon 'ave 'er lesson.Jolly soon. See?"

　　But Mr. Barnstaple's roving eye had suddenly discovered FatherAmerton approaching very rapidly across a wide space of lawn andmaking arresting gestures. Mr. Barnstaple perceived he must actat once.

　　“Now here's someone who will certainly be able to help you find yourcars, if he cares to do so. He's a most helpful man--Father Amerton.And the sort of views he has about women are the sort of views youhave. You are bound to get on together. If you will stop him andput the whole case to him--plainly and clearly.”

　　He set off at a brisk pace towards the lake shore.

　　He could not be far now from the little summer-house that ran outover the water against which the gaily coloured boats were moored.

　　If he were to get into one of these and pull out into the lake hewould have Father Amerton at a very serious disadvantage. Even ifthat good man followed suit. One cannot have a really eloquentemotional scene when one is pulling hard in pursuit of another boat.

　　Section 6

　　As Mr. Barnstaple untied the bright white canoe with the big blueeye painted at its prow that he had chosen, Lady Stella appeared onthe landing-stage. She came out of the pavilion that stood over thewater, and something in her quick movement as she emerged suggestedto Mr. Barnstaple's mind that she had been hiding there. She glancedabout her and spoke very eagerly. "Are you going to row out uponthe lake, Mr. Bastaple? May I come?"

　　She was attired, he noted, in a compromise between the Earthly andthe Utopian style. She was wearing what might have been eithera very simple custard-coloured tea-robe or a very sophisticatedbath-wrap; it left her slender, pretty arms bare and free except fora bracelet of amber and gold, and on her bare feet--and they wereunusually shapely feet--were sandals. Her head was bare, and her darkhair very simply done with a little black and gold fillet round itthat suited her intelligent face. Mr. Barnstaple was an ignoramusabout feminine costume, but he appreciated the fact that she hadbeen clever in catching the Utopian note.

　　He helped her into the canoe. "We will paddle right out--a good way,"she said with another glance over her shoulder, and sat down.

　　For a time Mr. Barnstaple paddled straight out so that he hadnothing before him but sunlit water and sky, the low hills thatclosed in the lake towards the great plain, the huge pillars of thedistant dam, and Lady Stella. She affected to be overcome by thebeauty of the Conference garden slope with its houses and terracesbehind him, but he could see that she was not really looking at thescene as a whole, but searching it restlessly for some particularobject or person.

　　She made conversational efforts, on the loveliness of the morningand on the fact that birds were singing--"in July."

　　"But here it is not necessarily July," said Mr. Barnstaple.

　　"How stupid of me! Of course not."

　　"We seem to be in a fine May."

　　"It is probably very early," she said. "I forgot to wind my watch."

　　"Oddly enough we seem to be at about the same hours in our twoworlds," said Mr. Barnstaple. "My wrist-watch says seven."

　　"No," said Lady Stella, answering her own thoughts and with her eyeson the distant gardens. "That is a Utopian girl. Have you met anyothers--of our party--this morning?"

　　Mr. Barnstaple brought the canoe round so that he too could look atthe shore. From here they could see how perfectly the huge terracesand avalanche walls and gullies mingled and interwove with theprojecting ribs and cliffs of the mountain masses behind. The shrubtangles passed up into hanging pinewoods; the torrents and cascadesfrom the snow-field above were caught and distributed amidst theemerald slopes and gardens of the Conference Park. The terraces thatretained the soil and held the whole design spread out on eitherhand to a great distance and were continued up into the mountainsubstance; they were built of a material that ranged through a widevariety of colours from a deep red to a purple-veined white, andthey were diversified by great arches over torrents and rockgullies, by huge round openings that spouted water and by cascadesof steps. The buildings of the place were distributed over theseterraces and over the grassy slopes they contained, singly or ingroups and clusters, buildings of purple and blue and white as lightand delicate as the Alpine flowers about them. For some moments Mr.Barnstaple was held silent by this scene, and then he attended toLady Stella's question. "I met Mr. Rupert Catskill and thetwo chauffeurs," he said, "and I saw Father Amerton andLord Barralonga and M. Dupont in the distance. I've seen nothingof Mr. Mush or Mr. Burleigh."

　　"Mr. Cecil won't be about for hours yet. He will lie in bed untilten or eleven. He always takes a good rest in the morning when thereis any great mental exertion before him."

　　The lady hesitated and then asked: "I suppose you haven't seen MissGreeta Grey?"

　　"No," said Mr. Barnstaple. "I wasn't looking for our people. I wasjust strolling about--and avoiding somebody."

　　"The censor of manners and costumes?"

　　"Yes.... That, in fact, is why I took to this canoe."

　　The lady reflected and decided on a confidence.

　　"I was running away from someone too."

　　"Not the preacher?"

　　"Miss Grey!"

　　Lady Stella apparently went off at a tangent. "This is going to be avery difficult world to stay in. These people have very delicatetaste. We may easily offend them."

　　"They are intelligent enough to understand."

　　"Do people who understand necessarily forgive? I've always doubtedthat proverb."

　　Mr. Barnstaple did not wish the conversation to drift away intogeneralities, so he paddled and said nothing.

　　"You see Miss Grey used to play Phryne in a Revue."

　　"I seem to remember something about it. There was a fuss in thenewspapers."

　　"That perhaps gave her a bias."

　　Three long sweeps with the paddle.

　　"But this morning she came to me and told me that she was going towear complete Utopian costume."

　　"Meaning?"

　　"A little rouge and face powder. It doesn't suit her the leastlittle bit, Mr. Bastaple. It's a faux pas. It's indecent. But she'srunning about the gardens--. She might meet anyone. It's luckyMr. Cecil isn't up. If she meets Father Amerton--! But it's best notto think of that. You see, Mr. Bastaple, these Utopians and theirsun-brown bodies--and everything, are in the picture. They don'tembarrass me. But Miss Grey--. An earthly civilized woman takenout of her clothes _looks_ taken out of her clothes. Peeled. A sortof _bleached_ white. That nice woman who seems to hover round us,Lychnis, when she advised me what to wear, never for one momentsuggested anything of the sort.... But, of course, I don't knowMiss Grey well enough to talk to her and besides, one never knowshow a woman of that sort is going to take a thing...."

　　Mr. Barnstaple stared shoreward. Nothing was to be seen of anexcessively visible Miss Greeta Grey. Then he had a conviction."Lychnis will take care of her," he said.

　　"I hope she will. Perhaps, if we stay out here for a time--"

　　"She will be looked after," said Mr. Barnstaple. "But I think MissGrey and Lord Barralonga's party generally are going to make troublefor us. I wish they hadn't come through with us."

　　"Mr. Cecil thinks that," said Lady Stella.

　　"Naturally we shall all be thrown very much together and judged in alump."

　　"Naturally," Lady Stella echoed.

　　She said no more for a little while. But it was evident that she hadmore to say. Mr. Barnstaple paddled slowly.

　　"Mr. Bastaple," she began presently.

　　Mr. Barnstaple's paddle became still.

　　"Mr. Bastaple--are you _afraid_?"

　　Mr. Barnstaple judged himself. "I have been too full of wonder tobe afraid."

　　Lady Stella decided to confess. "I _am_ afraid," she said. "I wasn'tat first. Everything seemed to go so easily and simply. But in thenight I woke up--horribly afraid."

　　"No," considered Mr. Barnstaple. "No. It hasn't taken me likethat--yet.... Perhaps it will."

　　Lady Stella leant forward and spoke confidentially, watching theeffect of her words on Mr. Barnstaple. "These Utopians--I thoughtat first they were just simple, healthy human beings, artistic andinnocent. But they are not, Mr. Bastaple. There is something hardand complicated about them, something that goes beyond us and thatwe don't understand. And they don't care for us. They look at uswith heartless eyes. Lychnis is kind, but hardly any of the othersare the least bit kind. And I think they find us inconvenient."

　　Mr. Barnstaple thought it over. "Perhaps they do. I have been sopreoccupied with admiration--so much of this is fine beyonddreaming--that I have not thought very much how we affected them.But--yes--they seem to be busy about other things and not veryattentive to us. Except the ones who have evidently been assigned towatch and study us. And Lord Barralonga's headlong rush throughthe country must certainly have been inconvenient."

　　"He killed a man."

　　"I know."

　　They remained thoughtfully silent for some moments.

　　"And there are other things," Lady Stella resumed. "They think quitedifferently from our way of thinking. I believe they despise usalready. I noted something.... Last evening you were not with usby the lake when Mr. Cecil asked them about their philosophy. Hetold them things about Hegel and Bergson and Lord Haldane and hisown wonderful scepticism. He opened out--unusually. It was veryinteresting--to me. But I was watching Urthred and Lion and in themidst of it I saw--I am convinced--they were talking to each otherin that silent way they have, about something quite different.They were just _shamming_ attention. And when Freddy Mush tried tointerest them in Neo-Georgian poetry and the effect of the war uponliterature, and how he hoped that they had something _half_ asbeautiful as the Iliad in Utopia, though he confessed he couldn'tbelieve they had, they didn't even pretend to listen. They did notanswer him at all.... Our minds don't matter a bit to them."

　　"In these subjects. They are three thousand years further on. But wemight be interesting as learners."

　　"Would it have been interesting to have taken a Hottentot aboutLondon explaining things to him--after one had got over the firstfun of showing off his ignorance? Perhaps it would. But I don'tthink they want us here very much and I don't think they are goingto like us very much, and I don't know what they are likely to doto us if we give too much trouble. And so I am afraid."

　　She broke out in a new place. "In the night I was reminded of mysister Mrs. Kelling's monkeys.

　　"It's a mania with her. They run about the gardens and come intothe house and the poor things are always in trouble. They don'tquite know what they may do and what they may not do; they all lookfrightfully worried and they get slapped and carried to the door andthrown out and all sorts of things like that. They spoil things andmake her guests uneasy. You never seem to know what a monkey's goingto do. And everybody hates to have them about except my sister. Andshe keeps on scolding them. 'Come _down_, Jacko! Put that _down_,Sadie'!"

　　Mr. Barnstaple laughed. "It isn't going to be quite so bad as thatwith us, Lady Stella. We are not monkeys."

　　She laughed too. "Perhaps it isn't. But all the same--in the night--Ifelt it might be. We are inferior creatures, One has to admit it...."

　　She knitted her brows. Her pretty face expressed great intellectualeffort. "Do you realize how we are cut off?... Perhaps you willthink it silly of me, Mr. Bastaple, but last night before I went tobed I sat down to write my sister a letter and tell her all aboutthings while they were fresh in my mind. And suddenly realized Imight as well write--to Julius Caesar."

　　Mr. Barnstaple hadn't thought of that.

　　"That's a thing I can't get out of my head, Mr. Bastaple--noletters, no telegrams, no newspapers, no Bradshaw in Utopia. All thethings we care for really-- All the people we live for. Cut off!I don't know for how long. But completely cut off.... How long arethey likely to keep us here?"

　　Mr. Barnstaple's face became speculative.

　　"Are you _sure_ they can ever send us back?" the lady asked.

　　"There seems to be some doubt. But they are astonishingly cleverpeople."

　　"It seemed so easy coming here--just as if one walked round acorner--but, of course, properly speaking we are out of space andtime.... More out of it even than dead people.... The North Pole orCentral Africa is a whole universe nearer home than we are.... It'shard to grasp that. In this sunlight it all seems so bright andfamiliar.... Yet last night there were moments when I wanted toscream...."

　　She stopped short and scanned the shore. Then very deliberately shesniffed.

　　Mr. Barnstaple became aware of a peculiarly sharp and appetizingsmell drifting across the water to him.

　　"Yes," he said.

　　"It's breakfast bacon!" cried Lady Stella with a squeak in hervoice.

　　"Exactly as Mr. Burleigh told them," said Mr. Barnstaplemechanically turning the canoe shoreward.

　　"Breakfast bacon! That's the most reassuring thing that has happenedyet.... Perhaps after all it was silly to feel frightened. And therethey are signalling to us!" She waved her arm.

　　"Greeta in a white robe--as you prophesied--and Mr. Mush in a sortof toga talking to her.... Where could he have got that toga?"

　　A faint sound of voices calling reached them.

　　"Com--_ing_!" cried Lady Stella.

　　"I hope I haven't been pessimistic," said Lady Stella. "But I felt_horrid_ in the night."