He had heard of astral planes, and censured them.
"Just so. Luckily it was Helen's aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went."
"Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one's ever asked me about my—what d'ye call it? Perhaps I've not got one."
"You're bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it."
"Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?"
"Too difficult a question."
"Why's that? Gruyère or Stilton?"
"Gruyère, please."
"Better have Stilton."
"Stilton. Because, though I don't believe in auras, and think Theosophy's only a halfway-house—"
"—Yet there may be something in it all the same," he concluded, with a frown.
"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can't explain. I don't believe in all these fads, and yet I don't like saying that I don't believe in them."
He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn't give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?"
"I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?"
"I don't know."
"Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know."
"Yes, I am," "No, you're not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject.
"How's your house?"
"Much the same as when you honoured it last week."
