“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.”