I should like to contend that my day-dreams are of
the philanthropic and impersonal variety. I should like to be able to say that, in these rare moments when I am able to indulge my thoughts, they cluster like rooks about and around social progress, cawing aloud in indignation, settling with satisfied little grunts into the nests of some new and perfect social formula. It would be pleasant to assert that my dream world was a world in which I myself figured merely as a ministrant clad in hygienic clothing and moving, with an expression of enlightened abnegation, from happy group to happy group. I fear, however, that I cannot lay claim to such imaginative altruism. I do not say that all my day-dreams, always, are materialistic. Yet I must admit that in all the dream-worlds which I create for myself I figure (young, beautiful and beloved) as the central in- fluence. I suppose (and the supposition is galling) that sex has something to do with it (hence those blue compelling eyes) and that power has something to do with it (hence the glances of gratitude which meet me as I pass). Humanity might benefit were my day-dreams to become realities. Yet only certain sections of humanity, and even then the dominant note is my own vision and control, rather than what is added to the contentment of others.
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