But Mrs. Mercer-Laporte made a profession of irrelevance. In her world it was the hall-mark of wisdom, the guarantee of occult knowledge to which the profane crowd can never attain. She would not have lowered her pretensions by sticking to the point. ‘Go,’ she said majestically, waving an inspired fork, ‘go to dearest Mr. Minch in Albany Road--49, Albany Road, Mr. Darnley; Albany Road in Notting Hill, remember. Go to him, Mr. Darnley, and be made happy. How all of us, bound down in this sphere of matter, how we leap and burn to attain the higher levels through which for ever the blessed ones are wandering on their angel wings! Ah, rapture, rapture, Mr. Darnley! Go, go to Mr. Minch.’ Twaddling and silly as her utterances were, yet the woman was obviously sincere. Kingston had never met the type before, and now he saw that it was not quite so cheap and contemptible as he had always imagined. Predisposed by his secret longings, he prepared to lend a favourable ear, and the dulled sobriety of his middle-aged calm began to break up unexpectedly into a St. Martin’s summer of youthful enthusiasm. ‘What does Mr. Minch do?’ he asked. ‘Do?’ replied Mrs. Mercer-Laporte. ‘He draws the pearl from the Secret Lotus! He will tell you your heart’s desire. He will tell you of the sweet spirits hovering round you. He can see them all easily, and the colour of your own soul’s halo he will tell you too. Sometimes it is pink and sometimes it is blue. Mine,’ she added with pride, ‘is purple. No one but me has a purple halo, Mr. Darnley. But every one of us has a colour of our own, and dear Mr. Minch sees them distinctly and clearly, and tells you all about them, and about the dear spirits as well. And then, if there is anyone among them, anyone in the precious company of the invisible with whom you particularly wish to enter into sweet converse, Mr. Darnley, you might go on to Mr. Muddock at Hindhead. Mention my name, though, just to show that you have a reverend and faithful spirit. Mr. Muddock has _the_ most marvellous powers. He is more than a mere psychometrist. He can actually make the dead resume the garb of flesh, Mr. Darnley!’ perorated Mrs. Mercer-Laporte with awful solemnity. Suddenly Kingston’s resolve of twenty years weakened and broke. The long odds were that this talk of spirits was the mere nonsense he had always believed it. But still there could be no possible harm in trying to find out. And if, in sober truth, Isabel were really hovering on the edge of the other world, perpetually longing to enter into communication with him again, how tragically foolish to neglect the blessed opportunity because of any stupid materialistic qualm of incredulity. After all, there might be something in it. In the avowed belief that there was nothing, and the secret trust that there might be a great deal, he resolved that he would go and see the wonderful Mr. Minch. He intimated his decision to Mrs. Mercer-Laporte. The sibyl showed much mystic rapture.