He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Listen. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. Then he understood.
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