“I suppose you don’t mind wet weather?” she suggested. “Because it must be rather difficult to know when it’s going to clear up.”
“There are degrees of blue,” Mr. Morphew explained.
“I see. Life isn’t just one vast, reckless blue. Well, thank you very much for being so patient with my old-fashioned optical ideas. I do hope you’ll go to America and tell them that their leaves turn blue in autumn. Anyway, you’ll feel quite at home crossing the ocean, though some people won’t even admit that’s blue.”
Sylvia left the Azurist and rejoined Ronald.
“Well,” he laughed. “You look quite frightened.”
“My dear, I’ve just done a bolt from the blue. You are a beast to rag my enthusiasms. Isn’t there anybody here whose serious view of himself I can indorse?”
“Well, there’s Pattison, the Ovist. He maintains that everything resolves itself into ovals.”
“I think I should almost prefer Azurism,” said Sylvia. “What about the Blanchists?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t like them! They maintain that there’s no such thing as color; their pictures depend on the angle at which they’re hung.”
“But if there’s no such thing as color, how can they paint?”