Turnbull took his head out of his pewter pot in some anger.
“The supernatural, of course,” he said, “is quite another thing; the case of the supernatural is simple. The supernatural does not exist.”
“Quite so,” said MacIan in a rather dull voice; “you said the same about the natural. If the natural does not exist the supernatural obviously can't.” And he yawned a little over his ale.
Turnbull turned for some reason a little red and remarked quickly, “That may be jolly clever, for all I know. But everyone does know that there is a division between the things that as a matter of fact do commonly happen and the things that don't. Things that break the evident laws of nature——”
“Which does not exist,” put in MacIan sleepily. Turnbull struck the table with a sudden hand.
“Good Lord in heaven!” he cried——
“Who does not exist,” murmured MacIan.
“Good Lord in heaven!” thundered Turnbull, without regarding the interruption. “Do you really mean to sit there and say that you, like anybody else, would not recognize the difference between a natural occurrence and a supernatural one—if there could be such a thing? If I flew up to the ceiling——”
“You would bump your head badly,” cried MacIan, suddenly starting up. “One can't talk of this kind of thing under a ceiling at all. Come outside! Come outside and ascend into heaven!”
He burst the door open on a blue abyss of evening and they stepped out into it: it was suddenly and strangely cool.