Mabel
seized a pebble, and threw it with such success that the swaying
stopped, and a reproachful cat-face looked round at her.
"There!" said Mabel comfortably; and then, "Well, what do you really
think?"
Maggie smiled reflectively.
"That's exactly what I don't know myself in the very least. As I said,
all this seems to me more like a dream--and a very bad one. I think
it's the ... the nastiest thing," she added vindictively, "that I've
ever come across; I don't want to hear one word more about it as long
as I live."
"But--"
"Oh, my dear, why can't we be all just sensible and normal? I love
doing just ordinary little things--the garden, and the chickens, and
the cat and dog and complaining to the butcher. I cannot imagine what
anybody wants with anything else. Yes; I suppose I do, in a sort of
way, believe Mr. Cathcart. It seems to me, granted the spiritual world
at all--which, naturally, I do grant--far the most intelligent
explanation. It seems to me, intellectually, far the most broad-minded
explanation; because it really does take in all the facts--if they are
facts--and accounts for them reasonably. Whereas the subjective--self
business--oh, it's frightfully clever and ingenious--but it does
assume such a very great deal.
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