'"It is impossible to know whether or not plants are conscious; but it
is consistent with the doctrine of continuity that in all living things
there is something psychic, and if we accept this point of view--'"

"_If_," she interrupted, scenting danger.

He ignored the interruption as a thing of slight value he was accustomed
to.

'"If we accept this point of view,'" he continued, '"we must believe
that in plants there exists a faint copy of _what we know as
consciousness in ourselves_ .'"

He laid the paper down and steadily stared at her. Their eyes met. He
had italicized the last phrase.

For a minute or two his wife made no reply or comment. They stared at
one another in silence. He waited for the meaning of the words to reach
her understanding with full import. Then he turned and read them again
in part, while she, released from that curious driving look in his eyes,
instinctively again glanced over her shoulder round the room. It was
almost as if she felt some one had come in to them unnoticed.

"We must believe that in plants there exists a faint copy of what we
know as consciousness in ourselves."

"_If_," she repeated lamely, feeling before the stare of those
questioning eyes she must say something, but not yet having gathered her
wits together quite.