It seems to me rather like the people
who say that electricity accounts for everything--electricity! And as
for the imagination theory--well, that's what appeals to me now,
emotionally--because I happen to be in the chickens and butcher mood;
but it doesn't in the least convince me. Yes; I suppose Mr. Cathcart's
theory is the one I ought to believe, and, in a way, the one I do
believe; but that doesn't in the least prevent me from feeling it
extraordinarily unreal and impossible. Anyhow, it doesn't matter
much."
Again she leaned back comfortably, smiling to herself, and there was a
long silence.
It was a divinely beautiful August evening. From where they sat little
could be seen except the long vista of the path, arched with hazels,
whence the cat had now disappeared, ending in three old brick steps,
wide and flat, lichened and mossed, set about with flower-pots and
leading up to the yew walk. But the whole air was full of summer sound
and life and scent, heavy and redolent, streaming in from the old
box-lined kitchen-garden on their right beyond the hedge and from the
orchard on the left. It was the kind of atmosphere suggesting Nature
in her most sensible mood, full-blooded, normal, perfectly fulfilling
her own vocation; utterly unmystical, except by very subtle
interpretation; unsuggestive, since she was already saying all that
could be said, and following out every principle by which she lived to
the furthest confine of its contents.
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