These thoughts caused an electrical impulse to race through Newland’s limbs. He remembered with great detail what it was like being inside of her velvety orchid, with her arms surrounding him in an unbreakable bond, her legs wrapped so tightly around his torso that he could almost feel the blood race through her limbs. Their bodies had moved with the cadence of a sublime, perfect Mozart sonata. Their hearts had beat as one, magically transforming from the illusory shell of the physical body to create a single entity, forever joined. And when they leapt to the ultimate height, climaxing, they floated through the atmosphere as one, enjoying the rare celestial delights of all the universe, through both space and time. Life was complete, never to be destroyed, but eternal.

Newland exhaled a long breath. In two hours, she would finally be near him again. He would lay eyes on the perfect gem. Two hours.

The carriage stopped, and as he jumped out she leaned to him and laid her hand on his. “Good-bye, dearest,” she said, her eyes so blue that he wondered afterward if they had shone on him through tears.

He turned away and hurried across Union Square, repeating to himself, in a sort of inward chant: “It’s all of two hours from Jersey City to old Catherine’s. It’s all of two hours—and it may be more.”

Chapter 11

His wife’s dark blue brougham (with the wedding varnish still on it) met Archer at the ferry, and conveyed him luxuriously to the Pennsylvania terminus in Jersey City.

It was a sombre snowy afternoon, and the gas-lamps were lit in the big reverberating station. As he paced the platform, waiting for the Washington express, he remembered that there were people who thought there would one day be a tunnel under the Hudson through which the trains of the Pennsylvania railway would run straight into New York. They were of the brotherhood of visionaries who likewise predicted the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days, the invention of a flying machine, lighting by electricity, telephonic communication without wires, and other Arabian Night marvels.

“I don’t care which of their visions comes true,” Archer mused, “as long as the tunnel isn’t built yet.” In his senseless school-boy happiness he pictured Madame Olenska’s descent from the train, his discovery of her a long way off, among the throngs of meaningless faces, her clinging to his arm as he guided her to the carriage, their slow approach to the wharf among slipping horses, laden carts, vociferating teamsters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat, where they would sit side by side under the snow, in the motionless carriage, while the earth seemed to glide away under them, rolling to the other side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming themselves on his lips …

The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey- laden monster into its lair. Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenska’s pale and surprised face close at hand, and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like.