“Perhaps they do,” said Morris, “only I don’t see them.”
“Then they can’t be there.”
“Why not? Because things are invisible and intangible it does not follow that they don’t exist, as I ought to know as much as anyone.”
“Of course; but I am sure that if there were anything of that sort about you would soon be in touch with it. With me it is different; I could sleep sweetly with ghosts sitting on my bed in rows.”
“Why do you say that—about me, I mean?” asked Morris, in a more earnest voice.
“Oh, I don’t know. Go and look at your own eyes in the glass—but I daresay you do often enough. Look here, Morris, you think me very silly—almost foolish—don’t you?”
“I never thought anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I think you a young woman rather more idle than most, and with a perfect passion for burying your talent in very white napkins.”
“Well, it all comes to the same thing, for there isn’t much difference between fool-born and fool-manufactured. Sometimes I wake up, however, and have moments of wisdom—as when I made you hear that thing, you know, thereby proving that it is all right, only useless—haven’t I?”
“I daresay; but come to the point.”
“Don’t be in a hurry. It is rather hard to express myself. What I mean is that you had better give up staring.”