To a man
who regards himself as being the real thing, flesh and blood, and,
well, eighteen-carat flesh and blood at that, to be accused of living
only a figmentary existence is too much. I retorted angrily.
"If you consider me nothing more than an idea, you do not manifest
your usual astuteness," I said.
Her reply laid me flat.
"I do not consider you anything of the sort. I never so much as
associated you with anything resembling an idea. I merely asked a
question," she said. "I repeat it. Do you or do you not exist? Are
you a bit of the really real or a bit of Mr. Harley's realism? In
short, are you here at Profile Lake, walking and talking with me, or
are you not?"
A realizing sense of my true position crept over me. In reality I
was not there talking to her, but in my den in New York writing about
her. I may not be a realist, but I am truthful. I could not deceive
her, so I replied, hesitatingly:
"Well, Miss Andrews, I am--no, I am not here, except in spirit."
"That's what I thought," she said, demurely.
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