“An eschatology?” supplemented Ware.
“A what? What on earth’s an eschatology?” gasped Ware’s sister.
“Say, for brevity, the material manifestation of spiritual things; not quite theological, but ’t will serve,” Vinton returned, and was silent; and after a time Abigail asked him what he thought of the legend of the Angel of Mons. Then it was that Vinton began to be truly cryptic. “What’s the use,” he said genially, “of talking about these things to two people who are made of stuff as splendidly solid and insensitive to the vibrations of what they’d call fantasy as their colonial pieces themselves.”
Abigail sighed. “I’m sorry that I’m too insensitive to hear of these saving complements of horror,” she said. “As for Billy, I suppose he wants the facts.”
“The horror,” returned Vinton, “for the facts are all horror. If it hadn’t been for the story that the Marquis of Mallorie’s daughter told me I should bring home nothing else.”
“Is this one of those manifestations you refuse to reveal to us?”
“It is the only one. It’s no use before Ware; perhaps some time—if you will listen.”
“Go on,” said Ware; “‘si non e vero, e ben trovato’”.
“Oh, I’m not making it up.”
“Well, what do they say about the Russian advance, over there? Did you see any of the big German guns in action?”