“What I felt once or twice when we were in fancy dress? Unfortunately that sort of thing has been scientifically explained. It means nothing I’m afraid.”
“I rather like the idea of reincarnation.” Quite forgetting she had rejected it with scorn.
“So do I—as a man. But science is uncompromising.”
“Science is always finding out its mistakes. Look at anthropology. I read a lot of that last year.” She shied away from any mention of Eustace, even as tutor.
“True. Well, of course, anything is possible. We know very little after all. Certainly nothing of the Beyond.”
“I choose to believe,” said Gita clearly and looking straight at him, “that two hundred years ago I was living at that manor and you came here from Boston on a visit—political, probably—and brought letters to us. You would, of course . . . I think I knew it that night.”
“A very pretty game, if you want to play it.” She saw his eyes flash and his mouth set, simultaneously. “But this is not a romantic age, you know. Particularly since the war. I’m told that no old cliché is so heartily despised—that’s saying a good deal, isn’t it? Clichés being anathema in your set, I’m told.”
“That crowd is the merest ripple on the surface. Not hit in the solar plexus by the war like the young English writers, but taking their cue, although they’d hate to admit it. We’re all exactly the same as we always have been.”
“Fundamentally—I suppose we are. But luckily most of us are forced to live on the surface of our minds, at high pressure, and seldom have time to take a plunge.”
“Seldom, yes. But occasionally?”