The maid was approaching with the tea-tray. As she came across the lawn, the silver caught the rays of the sun and threw them back in radiant shafts of light. The maid’s cap and apron seemed dazzlingly white against the green and blue of the sky and garden.
“Of course, I’m conventional,” responded Gilbert. “Haven’t you discovered that before? Only weak people are unconventional.”
Claudia pondered this saying as she watched the maid arrange the table.
“I don’t believe that is altogether true,” she said at length, taking hold of the teapot.
“Of course not. Nothing is altogether true and nothing is altogether false. Plenty of milk, please.”
“I don’t believe I have a conventional, tidy mind. I can imagine myself doing quite unconventional things, and I don’t believe I should realize they were unconventional till I looked back.”
“That’s having no mind at all.” He looked at her teasingly. “The little pink abominations out of the cake-basket, please.”
“And then you’d be terribly shocked and put on your barrister air, and say ‘Didn’t you know that ...?’ You don’t altogether hold a brief for conventionality, do you?”
“It’s the safest and most convenient path,” he said, stirring his tea. “Personally, I have no quarrel with convention.”
“Don’t you believe that circumstances may sometimes force you to do unconventional things when convention means death to the spirit?”