“Yes, but because it happens constantly, it makes it none the less extraordinary,” he said.
“Certainly not; but you can no longer call it unnatural.”
“I call everything unnatural that seems to me unintelligible,” remarked Tom, with crisp assurance.
Maud began to laugh.
“What a great many unnatural things there must be,” she said, “according to your view. Why, the sun rising in the morning is unnatural. But it would be much more unnatural if it did not.”
“If I go on, I shall soon begin to talk nonsense,” said Tom, concessively, “and that would be a pity.”
“Well, let’s get back on to safe ground,” said Maud. “Come and tell me what to do with that column. It isn’t right.”
Tom picked up his stick, and shoved his hat back on his head.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, after looking at the picture for a moment. “I believe you know what the spirit of all this is—at least, your picture, which is admirable, looks as if you did—and yet you like Manvers’ statuettes. I think you are unnatural.”
“Do you remember a talk we had, when we were staying with you, about being broad?”