exact, or final. Everything is changeable, fluidic. That’s the whole fabric of modern thought.”
The Professor’s horrified glance was turned upon them.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, there you go, upsetting everything. You are a pair of maniacs, both of you. You ought to be shut away from people, with your wild ideas.”
He rushed out into his garden, sure of its calm, its mathematical exactness. He was really disturbed by the ultra-modern theories these ardent young iconoclasts forced him to consider.
“Poor Father Professor,” laughed Bambi, at his retreat.
“Why do you let him stay back there in the Middle Ages?”
“He’s happier there. It’s peaceful. Modern times distress him so when he remembers them.”
“I suppose you are not an average family, are you?” he asked.
“I suppose not,” she admitted.
“You are irritating, but interesting.”
“I warn you to let father alone. He’s too old to be hauled up-to-date. Just consider him an interesting survival and let him be.”
