Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the forms he desired to see.  Near St. Paul’s he stopped in front of an old book-shop.  His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest acquisition—­a Mores ‘Utopia.’  That particular edition (he assured Miltoun) was quite unprocurable—­he had never sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away.  This copy was in even better condition.  It could hardly last another twenty years—­a genuine book, a bargain.  There wasn’t so much movement in More as there had been a little time back.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on the word ‘Tranibore,’ began to make its way slowly towards the very centre of the volume.

“I see it’s genuine,” said Miltoun.

“It’s not to read, my lord,” the little man warned him:  “Hardly safe to turn the pages.  As I was saying—­I’ve not had a better piece this year.  I haven’t really!”

“Shrewd old dreamer,” muttered Miltoun; “the Socialists haven’t got beyond him, even now.”

The little man’s eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of Thomas More.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose he was one of them.  I forget if your lordship’s very strong on politics?”

Miltoun smiled.

“I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores dream.  But my machinery will be different.  I shall begin at the top.”

The little man nodded.

“Quite so, quite so,” he said; “we shall come to that, I dare say.”

“We must, Rimall.”  And Miltoun turned the page.

The little man’s face quivered.

“I don’t think,” he said, “that book’s quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading.  Now I’ve a most curious old volume here—­on Chinese temples.  It’s rare—­but not too old.  You can peruse it thoroughly.  It’s what I call a book to browse on just suit your palate.  Funny principle they built those things on,” he added, opening the volume at an engraving, “in layers.  We don’t build like that in England.”

Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man’s face wore no signs of understanding.

“Unfortunately we don’t, Rimall,” he said; “we ought to, and we shall.  I’ll take this book.”

Placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added:  “A good symbol.”

The little bookseller’s eye strayed down the temple to the secret price mark.

“Exactly, my lord,” he said; “I thought it’d be your fancy.  The price to you will be twenty-seven and six.”