I can't bother about that now. There's a lot about
astral substance, and so on. Besides, this is only what Mr. Cathcart
says. As I told you, I'm not at all sure that I believe one word of
it. But that's his idea."

Maggie stopped again suddenly, and leaned back, staring out at the
luminous green roof of hazels above her. The small cat could be
discerned half-way up the leafy tunnel swaying its body in preparation
for a pounce, while overhead sounded an agitated twittering. 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. 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 pa