Frothingham said no more. He was overwhelmed with a sense of the imminence of an unseen world--that world which had been made real to him by his nurses, bred in the legends and superstitions of England, and by his similarly trained companions at school, at the university, and ever since. It was a shock, but nothing incredible to him, this revelation of a daily and hourly commerce with that other world of which, he was certain from his own childhood experience, everyone had glimpses now and then. From time to time he looked at Cecilia, now returned to her wonted expression of abstraction. She seemed the very person to have such an experience. He was filled with awe of her; he was fascinated by her; he began to feel the first faint, vague stirrings of jealousy which he dared not express, even to himself, lest the spirit eyes of Cecilia’s lover should peer into his soul, and see, and punish. X At dinner that night Willie Kennefick, who was staying in the house, began to tell his experiences in New York--he had just come from a little visit there. “The woman I took in to dinner,” said he, “gave me a solar plexus while I was busy with the oysters. She said to me, ‘I went to see such a wonderful man to-day. He told me the most astonishing things about my past and future, and he sold me a little wax image that I’m going to burn for my gout.’ ‘What!’ said I. ‘For my gout,’ said she. ‘I have to burn it slowly, and when it’s consumed my gout will be gone. I got it _so_ cheap! Only twenty-five dollars.’” “And what did you say, Willie?” asked Mrs. Thayer. “I said ‘Cheap? It was a shame to cheat the poor devil in that fashion.’ And she said, ‘Wasn’t it a bargain? He wanted a hundred, but I brought him down.’” “You must have been keeping queer company in New York,” said Henrietta Gillett. “Not at all. It was at Mrs. Baudeleigh’s house, and the woman--well, her husband’s one of the biggest lawyers in New York. But, then, that’s no worse than the astrology some of us here have gone daft over.” “Oh--astrology--that’s a different matter,” objected Mrs. Thayer. “You evidently haven’t looked into it. That is a science--not at all the same as palmistry and spiritualism, and those frauds.” Cecilia smiled--the amused, pitying smile of wisdom in the presence of ludicrous ignorance--and looked at Frothingham. He returned her look--pleased to have a secret, and such an intimate secret, in common with her. “But don’t you think you’re a bit rash, Mrs. Thayer?” he drawled. “You certainly believe in ghosts, now, don’t you?” Miss Gillett’s handsome, high-bred face expressed astonishment. “Do _you_?” she asked, before Mrs. Thayer could answer him. “We can’t doubt it over on our side. We’ve too much evidence of it. And--I was listening to an old chap from Cambridge--your Cambridge--very clever old fellow, _I_ thought--Yarrow, wasn’t it? Yes, Yarrow.”