My instinct was to placate this impossible man. He was her father. I meant to honour him if I had to assault him to do it.
"Supremely satisfying!" I nodded, chary of naming the subject. "It is a stride beyond the art of the future: it is a flying leap out of the Not Yet into the Possibly Perhaps! I thank you for enlightening me, Mr. Blythe. I am your debtor."
He fairly snarled at me:
"What are you talking about!" he demanded.
I remained modestly mute.
To Wilna he said, pointing passionately at his canvas:
"The crows have been walking all over it again! I'm going to paint in the woods after this, earthquakes or no earthquakes. Have the trees been heaved up anywhere recently?"
"Not since last week," she said, soothingly. "It usually happens after a rain."
"I think I'll risk it then—although it did rain early this morning. I'll do a moonlight down there this evening." And, turning to me: "If you know as much about science as you do about art you won't have to remain here long—I trust."
"What?" said I, very red.