"There!" I say, as I whack myself down on the seat and pant.
When I look round the botanist is out of sight.
Section 5
But I am back in the world for all that, and my Utopia is done.
It is good discipline for the Utopist to visit this world occasionally.
But from the front seat on the top of an omnibus on a sunny September afternoon, the Strand, and Charing Cross corner, and Whitehall, and the great multitude of people, the great uproar of vehicles, streaming in all directions, is apt to look a world altogether too formidable. It has a glare, it has a tumult and vigour that shouts one down. It shouts one down, if shouting is to carry it. What good was it to trot along the pavement through this noise and tumult of life, pleading Utopia to that botanist? What good would it be to recommend Utopia in this driver's preoccupied ear?