"Celia, you do dodge about so. I have barely brought together and
classified my array of facts about things in this world, when you've
dashed up to another one. What is the connection between Mars and
limpets? If there are any limpets in Mars they are fresh-water ones. In
the canals."
"Oh, I just wondered," she said. "I mean"--she wrinkled her forehead in
the effort to find words for her thoughts--"I'm wondering what
everything means, and why we're all here, and what limpets are for, and,
supposing there are people in Mars, if we're the real people whom the
world was made for, or if _they_ are." She stopped and added, "One
evening after dinner, when we get home, you must tell me all about
_everything_."
Celia has a beautiful idea that I can explain everything to her. I
suppose I must have explained a stymie or a no-ball very cleverly once.
"Well," I said, "I can tell you what limpets are for now. They're like
sheep and cows and horses and pheasants and--and any other animal.
They're just for _us_. At least so the wise people say."
"But we don't eat limpets."
"No, but they can amuse us. This one"--and with a sudden leap I was
behind him as he dozed and I had dashed him forward another eighteenth
of a millimetre--"this one has amused _me_."
"Perhaps," said Celia thoughtfully and I don't think it was quite a nice
thing for a young woman to say, "perhaps we're only meant to amuse the
people in Mars."
"Then," I said lazily, "let's hope they _are_ amused."
* * * * *
But that was nearly three weeks ago. Ten days later war was declared.
Celia has said no more on the subject since her one afternoon's unrest,
but she looks at me curiously sometimes, and I fear that the problem of
life leaves her more puzzled than ever. At the risk of betraying myself
to her as "quite an ordinary person after all" I confess that just at
the moment it leaves me puzzled too.