“Where is the train for London?” we shall ask a uniformed fellow Utopian.
“This is the train for London,” he will say.
There will be a shutting of doors, and the botanist and I, trying not to feel too childish, will walk exploring through the capacious train.
The resemblance to a club will strike us both. “A good club,” the botanist will correct me.
When one travels beyond a certain speed, there is nothing but fatigue in looking out of a window, and this corridor train, twice the width of its poor terrestrial brother, will have no need of that distraction. The simple device of abandoning any but a few windows, and those set high, gives the wall space of the long corridors to books; the middle part of the train is indeed a comfortable library with abundant armchairs and couches, each wi
