“I cannot understand what they see in her--a beastly, fat woman,” he was saying, “and as vulgar as she can be! But she has got up this new fad of Spiritualism, and the women are all crazy about it--my wife amongst the rest. She professes to bring back their lovers and children and fathers and mothers, and there they all are, weeping and snivelling together, and swearing she is the grandest medium under the sun, and the most marvellous woman they have ever seen. “I believe it is all humbug! She dresses up her housemaids and footmen to represent the dear departeds, and women are such hysterical creatures, they will declare they see anything which you may tell them is there! I have forbidden Mrs. Maitland visiting her, but it is of no use! I don’t really know what has come to the women nowadays! They treat us, as if we were nobody! She’s off this very afternoon to some big séance that this Marchesa is giving!” “But who _is_ she?” demanded the other speaker, “Marchesa--of what?” “The Lord knows! _I_ don’t! She calls herself Marchesa di Sorrento, but who Sorrento was, she knows best. She is the wife--or is supposed to be--of a German, the Baron von Steinberg, who is really a very decent fellow, for a German--and he seems to let her do just as she likes! Finds it’s of no use speaking to her, I suppose, poor devil! Where he picked her up I can’t think! If you could only see her, Durant! She looks exactly like a cookmaid. A great, red, flat face with a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth! No more a lady than you are, but she is the women’s new plaything, and they howl if you try to take her from them.” “It is all very strange,” said Durant, “are you going to the séance this afternoon?” “No! I’m black-balled, because I struck a match the last time I was there! I’m rather sorry. It was good fun, and really the most curious things happen. I’ve seen an old man appear there, looking just like one of Velasquez’s portraits--with a pointed Venetian beard, and grizzled hair--not a bit like an Englishman--and, each time, he has asked for Von Steinberg--that’s the husband, you know--but I suppose my lady doesn’t let him hear of her little pranks, for I have never met him there!” “Then I suppose you _do_ believe something of this black art, Maitland. An Italian out of an old picture could hardly be impersonated by a footman, or a housemaid!” observed his companion. “My dear fellow! to tell you the honest truth, I don’t know _what_ to believe! There may be something in it and there may not! All I know is, that women have grown so deuced clever in these days, that I think they are capable of anything--especially of deceit!”