HENRY FOSTER loomed up through the twilight of the Embryo Store.
“Like to come to a feely this evening？”
Lenina shook her head without speaking.
“Going out with some one else？” It interested him to know which of his friends was being had by which other. “Is it Benito？” he questioned.
She shook her head again.
Henry detected the weariness in those purple eyes， the pallor beneath that glaze of lupus， the sadness at the corners of the unsmiling crimson mouth. “You’re not feeling ill， are you？” he asked， a trifle anxiously， afraid that she might be suffering from one of the few remaining infectious diseases.
Yet once more Lenina shook her head.
“Anyhow， you ought to go and see the doctor，” said Henry. “A doctor a day keeps the jim-jams away，” he added heartily， driving home his hypnop？dic adage with a clap on the shoulder. “Perhaps you need a Pregnancy Substitute，” he suggested. “Or else an extra-strong V.P.S. treatment. Sometimes， you know， the standard passion surrogate isn’t quite…”
“Oh， for Ford’s sake，” said Lenina， breaking her stubborn silence， “shut up！” And she turned back to her neglected embryos.
A V.P.S. treatment indeed！ She would have laughed， if she hadn’t been on the point of crying. As though she hadn’t got enough V. P. of her own！ She sighed profoundly as she refilled her syringe. “John，” she murmured to herself， “John…” Then “My Ford，” she wondered， “have I given this one its sleeping sickness injection， or haven’t I？” She simply couldn’t remember. In the end， she decided not to run the risk of letting it have a second dose， and moved down the line to the next bottle.
Twenty-two years， eight months， and four days from that moment， a promising young Alpha-Minus administrator at Mwanza-Mwanza was to die of trypanosomiasis–the first case for over half a century. Sighing， Lenina went on with her work.
An hour later， in the Changing Room， Fanny was energetically protesting. “But it’s absurd to let yourself get into a state like this. Simply absurd，” she repeated. “And what about？ A man–one man.”
“But he’s the one I want.”
“As though there weren’t millions of other men in the world.”
“But I don’t want them.”
“How can you know till you’ve tried？”
“I have tried.”
“But how many？” asked Fanny， shrugging her shoulders contemptuously. “One， two？”
“Dozens. But，” shaking her head， “it wasn’t any good，” she added.
“Well， you must persevere，” said Fanny sententiously. But it was obvious that her confidence in her own prescriptions had been shaken. “Nothing can be achieved without perseverance.”
“But meanwhile…”
“Don’t think of him.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Take soma， then.”
“I do.”
“Well， go on.”
“But in the intervals I still like him. I shall always like him.”
“Well， if that’s the case，” said Fanny， with decision， “why don’t you just go and take him. Whether he wants it or no.”
“But if you knew how terribly queer he was！”
“All the more reason for taking a firm line.”
“It’s all very well to say that.”
“Don’t stand any nonsense. Act.” Fanny’s voice was a trumpet； she might have been a Y.W.F.A. lecturer giving an evening talk to adolescent Beta-Minuses. “Yes， act–at once. Do it now.”
“I’d be scared，” said Lenina
“Well， you’ve only got to take half a gramme of soma first. And now I’m going to have my bath.” She marched off， trailing her towel.
The bell rang， and the Savage， who was impatiently hoping that Helmholtz would come that afternoon （for having at last made up his mind to talk to Helmholtz about Lenina， he could not bear to postpone his confidences a moment longer）， jumped up and ran to the door.
“I had a premonition it was you， Helmholtz，” he shouted as he opened.
On the threshold， in a white acetate-satin sailor suit，and with a round white cap rakishly tilted over her left ear， stood Lenina.
“Oh！” said the Savage， as though some one had struck him a heavy blow.
Half a gramme had been enough to make Lenina forget her fears and her embarrassments. “Hullo， John，” she said， smiling， and walked past him into the room. Automatically he closed the door and followed her. Lenina sat down. There was a long silence.
“You don’t seem very glad to see me， John，” she said at last.
“Not glad？” The Savage looked at her reproachfully； then suddenly fell on his knees before her and， taking Lenina’s hand， reverently kissed it. “Not glad？ Oh， if you only knew，” he whispered and， venturing to raise his eyes to her face， “Admired Lenina，” he went on， “indeed the top of admiration， worth what’s dearest in the world.” She smiled at him with a luscious tenderness. “Oh， you so perfect” （she was leaning towards him with parted lips）， “so perfect and so peerless are created” （nearer and nearer） “of every creature’s best.” Still nearer. The Savage suddenly scrambled to his feet. “That’s why，” he said speaking with averted face， “I wanted to do something first…I mean， to show I was worthy of you. Not that I could ever really be that. But at any rate to show I wasn’t absolutely un-worthy. I wanted to do something.”
“Why should you think it necessary…” Lenina began， but left the sentence unfinished. There was a note of irritation in her voice. When one has leant forward， nearer and nearer， with parted lips–only to find oneself， quite suddenly， as a clumsy oaf scrambles to his feet， leaning towards nothing at all–well， there is a reason， even with half a gramme of soma circulating in one’s blood-stream， a genuine reason for annoyance.
“At Malpais，” the Savage was incoherently mumbling， “you had to bring her the skin of a mountain lion–I mean， when you wanted to marry some one. Or else a wolf.”
“There aren’t any lions in England，” Lenina almost snapped.
“And even if there were，” the Savage added， with sudden contemptuous resentment， “people would kill them out of helicopters， I suppose， with poison gas or something. I wouldn’t do that， Lenina.” He squared his shoulders， he ventured to look at her and was met with a stare of annoyed incomprehension. Confused， “I’ll do anything，” he went on， more and more incoherently. “Anything you tell me. There be some sports are painful–you know. But their labour delight in them sets off. That’s what I feel. I mean I’d sweep the floor if you wanted.”
“But we’ve got vacuum cleaners here，” said Lenina in bewilderment. “It isn’t necessary.”
“No， of course it isn’t necessary. But some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone. I’d like to undergo something nobly. Don’t you see？”
“But if there are vacuum cleaners…”
“That’s not the point.”
“And Epsilon Semi-Morons to work them，” she went on， “well， really， why？”
“Why？ But for you， for you. Just to show that I…”
