"I? Oh, the other person's wrong, of course," rejoined Monty, easily.
"Is there no argument?"
"Oh, no!" Monty's "Oh" was merely a quick intaking of the breath.
"It's ill-bred," sneered Jack. "In the æsthetic world there's no argument at all. One just slangs everybody else behind their backs."
"Are you quite well, Penton?" archly inquired Monty. His question made Jack grin, but not altogether with amiability. "I thought you might be ailing."
"Why is it that anybody who speaks the truth is always suspect?" asked Jack, vigorously. "It's extraordinary to me."
"It's because you live in the material world of unreality, my dear Penton. Once you realise that art is the fundamental principle of life, you'll take yourself less seriously."
Patricia thought: one for Master Jack. Is it that he does that? Does he take himself—everything—too seriously? I think so. And what is the material world of unreality? That was the question which Jack was asking aloud.
"The world of phenomena," explained Monty, "is the unreal world."