Katharine had expected to spend a quiet evening with Ralston. She had
counted upon Mrs. Bright’s sleepiness, which was overpowering when it
suddenly came upon her, and upon Hamilton Bright’s tact. She thought
that he would very probably go out soon after dinner and not appear
again. But she was very much mistaken in her calculations.
When she came down to dinner she found Bright already in the library. He
was bending over a low table and looking at a new book when she entered,
and she saw a broad, flat expanse of black shoulders, just surmounted by
a round, flaxen head. As he heard her step behind him he straightened
himself and turned round to meet her. He put out his hand. She seemed a
little surprised at this, since they had exchanged all the usual
greetings when she had come, but she took it with her left, with an
unconscious awkwardness which touched him. She laughed a little.
“It’s not easy with my left,” she said. “It doesn’t come right--besides,
we’ve shaken hands before.”
“I know,” he answered. “But it doesn’t do any harm to do it again, you
know.”
It gave him pleasure to touch even the tips of her fingers.
“You have a sort of classic look,” he said, glancing at her dress.
“Toga--you know--that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know how I’m dressed, I’m sure,” she answered. “It’s such a
bore to have one’s arm in a sling.”
She wore black. Her left side was fitted closely by the soft material,
and she had a certain little silver pin at her throat, which had
associations for her. She had worn it on the morning of her marriage
with John Ralston, and seldom appeared without it, though it was a most
insignificant little ornament. Over her right shoulder and arm she had
draped a piece of black silk and some lace. Mrs. Bright had come to her
room and arranged it for her with unerring skill and taste. It fell
gracefully almost to her feet, whence Bright’s remark about the toga.
“I should think it would be rather worse than a bore,” he said. “It must
hurt all the time. I wonder you keep up at all. But I’m glad you’ve come
down before my mother. I wanted to say something to you about all that’s
happened. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why should I mind?” asked Katharine, smiling at the little timidity
which had checked him with its question.
“Well--you know--it’s about the will. There may be trouble about it.
Your father may wish to break it if he can. It’s not unnatural. But of
course, if he does, there’s going to be a most terrific row all round.
We shall all be raging furiously together like the heathen in about a
week, if he attacks the will. The Thirty Years’ War wouldn’t be in it,
with the row there’s going to be.”
“You take a cheerful view, cousin Ham,” said Katharine, with a smile.
“Who’s going to fight whom?”
“You and I are going to be on opposite sides,” answered Bright, gravely,
and fixing his clear blue eyes on her face.
“Well--what difference does that make?” she asked. “I mean, what
personal difference? We shall be just as good friends, shan’t we?”
“Ah--that’s it! Shall we?” He continued to watch her earnestly.
“Why not?” she asked, returning his gaze quietly. “What earthly
difference can it make to me? Of course, I hope papa won’t do anything
of the kind. We shall all have such heaps of money that I can’t see why
we should fight about a little, more or less--”
“No--but if he breaks the will, my mother and Hester and I shall get
nothing at all, and of course I shall fight it like anything. You
understand that, don’t you? It’s rather a big thing, you know--it’s
forty millions or nothing, because we’re not next of kin. You’ll
understand why I shall fight it, won’t you?”
He asked the last question very anxiously, and in his broad face there
was a curious struggle between the fighting instinct, expressed in the
setting of the firm jaw, and the painful fear of being misunderstood,
which showed itself in the entreating glance of the eyes.
“I understand perfectly,” answered Katharine. “It’s your duty to fight
it--of course.”
“I’m so glad you look at it in that way,” he said. “Because if you
didn’t--” He paused in the middle of the sentence.
“If I didn’t, I should be very stupid,” observed Katharine.
“No, no! I mean--if I thought you couldn’t understand it--well, I’ll be
hanged if I wouldn’t pretty nearly let the millions go, rather than
displease you!”
He blurted out the last words bluntly, as such men say wild but
sincerely meant things. Katharine understood.
“Please don’t say such foolish things, cousin Ham. You know it’s
perfectly absurd to talk of sacrificing a fortune in that way. Besides,
you’d have no right not to fight your best. Two-thirds of what you’ll
get will go to your mother and sister. You haven’t the slightest right
even to think of the possibility of sacrificing aunt Maggie and Hester.”
“No. I suppose I’ve not. And I know that it isn’t as though you weren’t
to have a big fortune anyway, however it turns out. Perhaps I’m a fool,
but I simply can’t bear to think of being opposed to you in anything.
That’s the plain fact, in two words.”
Katharine heard a sort of unsteadiness in the tone, and looked at him
for a moment in silence.
“Thank you, cousin Ham,” she said. “You’re a good friend. Thank you.”
She laid her hand upon his arm for an instant.
“That’s better than millions,” answered Bright, in an undertone, for his
mother was just entering the room.
Mrs. Bright might well be pardoned if she did not assume a lugubrious
and funereal expression that evening. To her, Robert Lauderdale had been
a distant relation of enormous wealth, from whom she had little or
nothing to expect, and whom she rarely saw. She had never needed his
help, and though he had occasionally remembered her and sent her a jewel
at Christmas, neither she nor her son had ever felt very much indebted
to him. The surprise was therefore overwhelming, and the rejoicing
inevitable and natural. Knowing, however, how dearly the old man had
loved Katharine, and that she had been with him at the time of his death
and had been really fond of him, Mrs. Bright avoided the subject
altogether during dinner. It would not keep out of her face, however,
nor out of her manner. Once or twice she and her son exchanged glances,
and both suppressed a happy smile. Katharine saw, understood, and felt
sad. The conversation turned upon generalities and was not very amusing.
Katharine could not help thinking of what Bright had said to her just
before dinner. At the moment, he had undoubtedly meant that he would
sacrifice the vast inheritance rather than incur her momentary
displeasure. Of course, she said to herself, when the case arose he
would not really have done so, but she could not but appreciate the
reckless generosity of the thought, and wonder at the possible strength
of the love that had prompted it. He had spoken so earnestly and there
had been such a perceptible tremor in his voice, that she had been glad
when Mrs. Bright’s appearance had cut short the interview. While she
talked indifferently during dinner, her thoughts dwelt on what Ralston
had said about Bright’s feelings and then went back to Ralston himself,
who was almost always present in her reflections. She felt that she
should not have felt any surprise if he had spoken as Bright had done.
It would have been quite natural. She might even have thought of
accepting the sacrifice.
Just then, after a little pause in the conversation, Mrs. Bright
suddenly asked her son whether he meant to go out in the evening.
“No,” he answered, promptly. “Not to-night. I wouldn’t go anywhere
except to the club, and even there--well, everybody would be talking and
asking questions, and that sort of thing. Besides,” he added, “cousin
Katharine’s here.”
The change of tone as he spoke of Katharine was so apparent that Mrs.
Bright smiled a little sadly. Her woman’s instinct had told her long ago
that her son had very little chance.
The three had not been long in the library when a servant brought a card
to Mrs. Bright. She glanced at it, somewhat surprised by the coming of
an unexpected visitor, in these days when evening visits have
disappeared from New York’s changeable civilization.
“It’s Archie Wingfield,” she said. “Funny!” she exclaimed. “Show Mr.
Wingfield in,” she said to the servant.
A moment later Archibald Wingfield entered the room. In spite of
himself, he paused a moment as he caught sight of Katharine.
“Oh!” he ejaculated, awkwardly, in a low voice.
Then he came forward, resolutely keeping his bold black eyes on Mrs.
Bright’s face as he went up to her and shook hands. Katharine had
understood the exclamation of astonishment, and felt the awkwardness of
the situation. But as she had given up all hope of seeing Ralston alone
that evening, she thought it was as well, on the whole, that some one
else should have come to help the general conversation. Nevertheless,
she would have chosen almost any one rather than her last rejected
suitor.
Both she and Hamilton Bright watched the young fellow with involuntary
admiration as he crossed the room and stood exchanging first words with
Mrs. Bright. There is a fascination about physical superiority when it
far outdoes all its surroundings and is altogether beyond competition
which, perhaps, no other attraction exercises in the same degree at
first sight.
Wingfield came to Katharine next. The rich blood rose in his brown
cheeks.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, simply.
“Excuse my left hand,” she answered, quietly, as she extended it. “I’ve
had a little accident.”
Wingfield started perceptibly. The expression in his black eyes changed
to one of the deepest anxiety, and the blush slowly ebbed from his face.
“An accident?” he stammered.
“Oh--nothing serious,” she answered, touched by the evident strength of
his feeling. “It’s only the small bone of my right arm. I fell down
yesterday and broke it. It’s in splints, of course, so I have to use my
left.”
“And you’re--you’re not taking care of yourself? With a broken arm?” He
seemed amazed, not having had much experience of broken limbs--his own
were solid. “But you ought to be at home--”
Katharine laughed a little.
“I’m staying here with aunt Maggie,” she answered. “I could scarcely
have any better care, could I?”
“Oh--I see. Yes.” But he did not seem satisfied.
He turned to Bright, shook hands, and then sat down.
“You must think it awfully funny--my dropping in, in this way,” he said,
recovering the self-possession which naturally belonged to his
character. “The fact is, I was going to dine out, and at the last minute
the people sent to tell me not to come, because they’ve had a little
fire in the dining-room, and everything’s flooded and uncomfortable, and
they were going to picnic somewhere--or something. So I dined at the
club, and I’m going to see the last act of that play with the horses in
it, you know--so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I asked leave to spend
half an hour with you on the way.”
“Why, of course not!” cried Mrs. Bright. “I’m delighted. You must help
us to amuse Katharine. She’s rather gloomy, poor child--with her arm,
and all she’s been through. She was staying with poor Mr. Lauderdale
when he died so suddenly.”
“Yes--it’s awfully sad,” answered Wingfield, with appropriate solemnity,
and wondering whether he should congratulate the Brights upon the
inheritance. “As for amusing Miss Lauderdale,” he continued, “I wish I
could. But I’m not a very amusing person--not a bit.”
“Perhaps we can amuse you, instead,” suggested Katharine, by way of
saying something.
“Oh, no--thanks--you’re very kind,” answered the young man, confusedly.
“You know my brothers always call me the family idiot. They’re always
chaffing me because I don’t know languages and things. I say,
Bright--you’re clever--do you know a lot of languages?”
“I? No, indeed!” answered Bright, with a short laugh. “I don’t know
anything particular--except about cattle and horses, and something about
banking. I’ve had a modern education! How should I know anything?”
“Oh, hang it all--I mean--I beg your pardon--but what a thing to say!”
“It’s mere nonsense,” observed Mrs. Bright. “Ham knows everything in a
useful way. But he’s always railing at modern education, and telling me
that it’s ruined his mind. He’s not sensible about that. Really you’re
not, Ham,” she added, with emphasis.
“Education’s meant for the common herd, mother,” answered Bright. “Fools
are better without it, bankers don’t need it, and geniuses can do
better.”
“That’s rather good,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “With which do you
class yourself?” she asked, with a laugh.
“Well--being neither a genius nor a fool, I have to be content with
being a banker.”
“I say--are lawyers part of the common herd, Bright?” enquired
Wingfield.
“Not if you’re going to be one, my dear boy,” answered the elder man.
“But I hope you’re not going to nail me out on my statement like an owl
over a stable door. It’s not kind. It’s much nicer to be misunderstood
in a friendly way than to have all one’s friends up on their hind legs
trying to understand one, when one hasn’t meant anything particular. By
Jove! There goes the bell again! I wonder who it is?”
“What ears you have!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. “I didn’t hear anything.
But it must be Jack Ralston. He’d come early, you know.”
Katharine glanced surreptitiously at the two men, leaning back in her
chair with half-closed eyes. Bright’s expression became a little more
set, and he moved one foot uneasily. Wingfield looked at Mrs. Bright as
she spoke, and then straight at Katharine. Ralston entered in a dead
silence, glanced quickly at Wingfield, greeted every one in turn, in the
quiet, easy way peculiar to him, which was quite different from Bright’s
slow and rather heavy manner, and from Archibald Wingfield’s physical
style, so to say, which showed itself in long, swift, powerful
movements, like the great stride of a magnificent hunter going along in
the open.
“You’ll be tired of the sight of me to-day,” said Ralston, smiling as he
sat down near Mrs. Bright.
“No fear of that, Jack,” answered Bright, anxious to show Katharine that
he was not displeased at Ralston’s coming. “My mother always looks upon
you as a sort of second son.”
“The prodigal son,” suggested John.
“Is that a hint to produce the fatted calf?” asked Bright. “Or have you
dined? You don’t look as though you had.”
“Why? What’s the matter with me? I’ve just come from dinner. I dined at
home with my mother.”
“You’re rather lean for a man who dines every day,” laughed Bright.
“That’s all. I believe you starve in secret. You’re afraid of getting
fat, Jack--that’s the truth. Confess it! You think it wouldn’t be
romantic.”
“I wish you would get a little fatter, Jack,” said Katharine. “You’d be
much nicer, I’m sure.”
The remark might have been natural enough between two cousins, both
young. But there was a subtle suggestion of proprietorship, or at least
of belonging to one another, in the tone of her voice, which jarred on
Wingfield’s ear. He was by no means dull nor slow of perception, in
spite of what he had said of himself. As an athlete, however, he took up
the question.
“You’d be stronger if you were a little heavier, Ralston,” he said. “Do
you go in for oatmeal when you train?”
“Oh--I haven’t trained since I was at college. I never bothered much.
But I don’t like stodgy things like porridge. I was a running man, you
know. I don’t believe it makes a particle of difference what one eats.”
“Oh, I do!” Katharine exclaimed, anxious to make the conversation move.
“I like some things and I don’t like others.”
“What, for instance?” asked Bright. “What do you like best to eat--and
then afterwards, what other things do you like best in the world? That’s
interesting. If you’ll tell us, we’ll get them for you right off.”
“I should think you could, between you,” said Mrs. Bright, glancing
round at the three goodly men, and wondering whether Wingfield was as
much in love with Katharine as the other two.
“What I like?--let me see,” said Katharine. “I like simple things to
eat. I hate peppermints, for instance. My mother lives on them. I like
plain things, generally--fish and game. Truffles--that’s another thing I
detest. Aunt Maggie never can understand why. She says there’s something
mysterious in a truffle, that appeals to her.”
“They’re so good!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. “Big black ones in a napkin
with fresh butter. But it’s quite true. There’s a sort of mystery in a
truffle. It’s like love, you know.”
Everybody laughed at what seemed the fantastic irrelevancy of the
comparison--Bright laughing louder than the rest.
“How do you make that out?” he asked. “It would be rather a grimy,
earthy sort of love, I should think.”
“Explain, aunt Maggie!” laughed Katharine.
“A truffle’s a cryptogam,” said Bright. “Nobody has ever explained about
cryptogams.”
“What is a cryptogam?” asked Katharine. “I’ve always wanted to know.”
“Cryptogam means secret marriage, or something of the sort,” said
Wingfield.
Katharine started a little and glanced at John Ralston.
“Yes,” said the latter. “It’s equivalent to saying that nobody knows how
they grow. But that doesn’t at all explain what aunt Maggie means by
what she said. Come, aunt Maggie, we’re all waiting for you to tell us.”
“Oh--I’m getting so sleepy, my dears, don’t ask me to explain things!
You know I’m always sleepy in the evening. It’s taking an unfair
advantage of me! Why is love like a truffle? Why, exactly for that
reason--because nobody can possibly tell when it begins, or how, or
why--or anything about it. Only, when you find it, you’ve found
something worth having. As for secret marriages--wasn’t it you who
mentioned them just now, Mr. Wingfield? Yes--well, they’re very romantic
and unpractical and pretty, but I should think the people would find it
a great nuisance. It’s much better to run away, and be done with it.”
Ralston’s eyes met Katharine’s, and he suppressed a smile, but in her
pale face the colour was rising slowly. Again the door opened, and two
men entered the room unannounced. The servant had taken it for granted
that as two visitors had been admitted, he might admit as many more as
came. Paul Griggs, the author, and Walter Crowdie, the artist, came
forward into the bright light. Crowdie has been already described.
Griggs was a lean, strong, grey-haired, plain-featured man of fifty, a
gaunt, bony, weather-beaten man, who had lived in many countries and
had seen many interesting sights--but none so interesting, people had
been saying lately, as Katharine Lauderdale’s face. It was commonly said
that he was in love with the girl, and people added that at his age it
was ridiculous, and that he was making a fool of himself.
Crowdie, as the son-in-law of the house, and one of the numerous persons
who called Mrs. Bright ‘aunt,’ came forward first, to shake hands and
explain the visit.
“I was going to make an apology for coming in without warning, aunt
Maggie,” he said. “Griggs dined with us, and we’re going to see the last
act of that play with the horses in it--you know--and as it’s too early,
we thought we’d ring the bell and call. But as you’ve got a party, I
suppose you accept the apology. At least, I hope you will.”
“You’re very welcome, Walter--glad to see you, Mr. Griggs.” Mrs. Bright
beamed. “It is a party--isn’t it? Why, there are five men in the room.
Let’s all go and see the last act of the play with the horses, and come
back to supper! Oh--I forgot--and Katharine, too, with her broken arm.
But Mr. Wingfield’s going to it by and by.”
“Yes,” said Wingfield. “I’m going. We’ll walk up together.”
Both Griggs and Crowdie had already heard of Katharine’s accident and
were asking her about it, before Mrs. Bright had finished speaking.
Presently the new-comers got seats, and the circle widened to admit them
as they sat down.
“I’m sure we interrupted some delightful conversation,” said Griggs,
breaking the momentary silence. “Won’t you go on?”
“My mother was explaining her views upon secret marriages,” said Bright.
“She’d just been comparing love to a truffle.”
“Truffle--cryptogam--secret marriage--love,” said Griggs, gravely. “Very
natural sequence of ideas. The interesting link is the secret marriage.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” assented young Wingfield. “What do you think about it,
Mr. Griggs?”
“What were you saying about it?” asked the man of letters, cautiously.
“No--what do you think about it?” insisted Mrs. Bright. “We hadn’t said
anything especial.”
“Is anybody present secretly married?” enquired Griggs, with a pleasant
laugh. “No--exactly--then I shouldn’t advise any of you to try it. I did
once--”
“You!” exclaimed two or three voices at once, and in surprise.
“Yes--on paper, in a book, with my paper dolls. I never want to do it
again. It had awful consequences.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Mrs. Bright.
“Oh--nothing! I fell in love with the heroine myself from writing about
her, killed the hero out of jealousy, and blew out my brains in the end
because she wouldn’t have me. I suppose it was natural, considering what
I’d done, but I took my revenge. I put her into a convent of Carmelite
nuns. It was so awkward afterwards. I wanted her in another
book--because I was in love with her--but as she was a Carmelite, she
couldn’t get out respectably, so she’s there still. It’s an awful bore.”
Even Katharine, who had felt the blood rising again in her cheeks,
laughed at the simple, natural regret expressed in Griggs’ face as he
spoke.
“Yes,” said Bright. “That’s all very well in a novel. But in real life
it’s quite different. I think a man who does that kind of thing is a
cad, myself.”
“So do I,” said Archibald Wingfield, impetuously. “A howling cad, you
know.”
“It’s an unnecessary piece of presumption to suppose that the world
cares what one does,” said Crowdie, who had not spoken yet. “And it
complicates things abominably to be married and not married at the same
time. Shouldn’t you think so, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, turning his
head towards Katharine as he spoke.
“I? Oh--I’ve no opinion in the matter,” answered Katharine, looking
away, and feeling very uncomfortable.
“I don’t agree with either of you,” said Ralston, slowly. “It depends
entirely on circumstances. There are cases where it’s the only thing to
do, if people really love each other. I don’t think any one has a right
to say that a man’s a cad simply because he’s married his wife secretly.
A man’s a much worse cad who marries a girl for her money, and doesn’t
care for her, than any man who gets secretly married for real love--and
you all know it.”
Ralston could not help speaking rather aggressively.
“Look out for the family temper!” laughed Walter Crowdie, in his
exquisitely musical voice.
“We’re all more or less of the family here,” answered Ralston, “except
Mr. Griggs and Wingfield. Not that we’re likely to get angry about such
a question,” he added, with an attempt at indifference. “What I say is
that it’s a monstrous injustice to call a man a cad on such grounds.”
“Oh--all right, Jack!” cried Bright. “If ever you get secretly married,
we won’t say you’re a cad. But in most cases--well, I’d rather hear
Griggs talk about it than talk myself. He’s an expert in love
affairs--on paper, as he says. Say what you really think, Griggs.
Wingfield and I can hold Ralston between us if he shows signs of being
dangerous.”
“I think I could help myself, in a modest way,” said Mr. Griggs, with a
quiet smile. “I used to be pretty strong once.”
He made the remark merely in the hope of turning the conversation.
Wingfield, as an athlete and a young Hercules, could not hear any
allusion made to physical strength without taking it up and discussing
it.
“Were you a boating man, Mr. Griggs?” he enquired, with sudden interest.
“No. I never pulled in a race.”
“I suppose you went in for long distance running, then. You’re made for
it,” he added, rather patronizingly and glancing at the man’s sinewy
figure.
“No. I never ran in a race,” answered the literary man.
“Oh--I supposed, when you spoke, that you’d gone in for
athletics--formerly,” said Wingfield, disappointed.
“No--I wasn’t educated in places where athletics were the fashion at
that time. I was strong--that’s all. I could do things with my hands
that other people couldn’t.”
“Could you?” Katharine saw that the original subject was dropping, and
encouraged the dull conversation which had taken its place. “What could
you do with your hands?” she asked, with an air of interest. “They look
strong. Could you roll up silver plates into holders for bouquets, like
Count Orloff?”
“I think I could do it,” Griggs answered, quietly. “But nobody ever
wanted to waste a silver plate on me.”
“It’s not easy, I should think,” said young Wingfield. “I know I
couldn’t do it.”
“I’m sure you could,” said Katharine, turning to him. “You must be
tremendously strong. But can’t you do something else with your hands,
Mr. Griggs? I like to see those things. They amuse me.”
Griggs was the last man in the world to wish to show off his qualities,
physical or mental, but on the present occasion he could not resist the
temptation. He never knew afterwards why he had yielded, and attributed
his weakness to the inborn desire to excel in the eyes of women, which
is in every man.
“Have you a pack of cards?” he asked, turning to Bright. “If you have,
I’ll show you something that may amuse you.”
Bright was a whist player, and immediately brought a pack from a remote
corner of the room and put it into Griggs’ hands.
“Now--there’s no deception, as the conjurers say,” he began, with a
laugh, looking first at Katharine, and then at Wingfield, as the strong
man of the party. “Perhaps you can do it, Mr. Wingfield?” he added.
“What? Tricks with cards? No--I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
“Well--it isn’t exactly a trick. I’m going to tear the pack in two. Did
you ever see it done?”
“No,” answered Wingfield, incredulously. “I’ve heard of it--but I don’t
believe it’s possible, if you tear it fairly.”
“Is this fair? Have I got a fair hold on them?”
“Yes--that’s all right. I don’t believe anybody can do it that way.”
“Well--look.”
Griggs set his teeth a little as he made the effort, and the furrows in
the weather-beaten face deepened a little, but that was all. The sinews
stood out on the backs of his hands for a few seconds, and his hands
moved, the one downwards, the other up. The pack was torn clean in two.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Bright. “I never saw that done.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” said Wingfield. “I’ve often tried. It’s
perfectly magnificent!”
“I’ll avoid you in a fight,” observed Ralston, laughing.
Crowdie had looked on with curiosity, but he had watched Griggs’ face
rather than his hands, comparing it with a picture of Samson pulling
down the pillars, which rose in his memory. He came to the conclusion
that the man who had painted the picture had never seen a great feat of
strength.
“It looks so easy,” said Katharine. “But it must be awfully hard.”
“There’s a good story the peasants tell in Russia about Peter the
Great,” said Griggs. “He was hunting. His horse lost a shoe, and he
stopped at a wayside smith’s. The smith made a shoe while Peter waited.
Peter took it, tried it in his hands, broke it and threw it into a
corner, saying it was bad. The smith made another, and the Czar broke it
again, and so on. But he could not break the tenth. The blacksmith asked
a rouble for the shoe. Peter gave him one. He broke it in two and threw
it into a corner, saying it was bad--and so he broke as many roubles as
the Czar had broken shoes, and said that the tenth was good. Peter was
so much pleased that he made the man a general--or something.”
“I suppose you could do that, too, couldn’t you?” asked Katharine,
looking at the gaunt, grey man with a strong admiration.
“Oh, yes--I’ve done it. But it’s a strange thing, isn’t it, when you
think that it’s all an illusion?”
“An illusion!” cried Wingfield, in disappointment. “What do you mean? It
isn’t a trick, surely!”
“Oh, no! I don’t mean that. But all matter is an illusion, isn’t it?
Nothing’s real that isn’t permanent.”
“But if matter isn’t permanent, what is?” asked Bright. “But I know--you
have the most extraordinary ideas about those things.”
“I don’t think they’re extraordinary. If matter were permanent in the
sense you mean, then life would be permanent in the same sense, because
we’re matter, and we shouldn’t die.”