The other day I went to a matinée at "The St. James's." I am fond of French Revolutionary plays, and _The Aristocrat_ appealed to me, not only by reason of its picturesqueness, which is happily unimpaired by any slavish adherence to historical accuracy, but also, and mostly, perhaps, by reason of its pretty and unimpeachable sentiment. The abandoned woman--a type so many of our modern dramatists consider cannot be dispensed with--apparently did not figure in this play at all. On this particular afternoon one of the principals happened to be away, but as the part was played to perfection by my young and charming compatriot, Miss Nina Oldfield, instead of being disappointed, I only experienced an additional pleasure. I was leaning back in my seat during the interval, thinking of Danton, Desmoulins, Marat, and other of the romantic figures of that period, when someone touched me on the shoulder and whispered, "Ghost man." Not recognising the voice, I turned round sharply. It was John Boulton, late dramatic critic of the _Arctus_, now a staff captain, home on leave from Egypt. "I've just heard of a case that will interest you," he said. "It bears out two of your theories, namely, that all animals and insects have spirits, and that spirits of all kinds, when freed from the material body, can assume dimensions far exceeding--in height especially--the dimensions of the material body that they once inhabited. But come on to my Club as soon as this show is over, and I'll tell you all about it." I accepted Boulton's invitation, and subsequently listened to the following: "Some friends of friends of mine, the Parminters, recently took a small house in Sydenham. Now Sydenham is not in the hey-day of its popularity. Scores of the bigger houses are to let, and the smaller ones--the majority at least--have not even that air of genteel respectability which characterises houses of the same size in some of the less remote suburbs. Of course the train service is responsible for much--even to think of a twenty-five minutes' journey into Town by train, when one can go any distance on tube in next to no time, is both intolerable and demoralising. But the decay of the Palace--the Palace that twenty years ago all London flocked to see--is in itself sufficient to have generated that all-pervading atmosphere of sadness that seems to have permeated people and houses, alike, with its spirit of abandonment and desolation. However, as a set-off against the many disadvantages of Sydenham, including its high rates and dull, unattractive shops, there is its wonderful air--the purest, so many doctors say, in England. And, after all, what is of more consequence than pure air which means health? At least, so the Parminters argued when they gave up the idea of living right in Town and bought this little two-storeyed villa close to the Crystal Palace Station.