Mr. Neilsen grunted morosely. He hated to be pestered by these gadflies of the steamer. He particularly disliked this little Englishman with the neat gray beard, not only because he was the head of an obnoxious bank in Buenos Aires, but because he would persist in talking to him with a ghoulish geniality about submarine operations and the subject of death. Also, he was one of those hopeless people who had been led by the wholesale slaughter of the war to thoughts of the possibility of a future life. Apparently Mr. Pennyfeather had no philosophy, and his spiritual being was groping for light through those materialistic fogs which brood over the borderlands of science. His wife was even more irritating; for she, too, was groping, chiefly because of the fashion; and they both insisted on talking to Mr. Neilsen about it. They had quite spoiled his breakfast this morning. He did not resent it on spiritual grounds, for he had none; but he did resent it because it reminded him of his mortality, and also because a professional quack does not like to be bothered by amateurs. Mrs. Pennyfeather approached him now on the other side. She was a faded lady with hair dyed yellow, and tortoise-shell spectacles. "Have you ever had your halo read, Mr. Neilsen?" she asked with a sickly smile. "No. I don't believe in id," he said gruffly. "But surely you believe in the spectrum," she continued with a ghastly inconsequence that almost curdled the logic in his German brain. "Certainly," he replied, trying hard to be polite. "And therefore in specters," she cooed ingratiatingly, as if she were talking to a very small child. "Nod at all! Nod at all!" he exploded somewhat violently, while Mr. Pennyfeather, on the other side, came to his rescue, sagely repudiating the methods of his wife. "No, no, my dear! I don't think your train of thought is quite correct there. My wife and I are very much interested in recent occult experiments, Mr. Neilsen. We've been wondering whether you wouldn't join us one night, round the ouija board." "Id is all nonsense to me," said Mr. Neilsen, gesticulating with both arms. "Quite so; very natural. But we got some very curious results last night," continued Mr. Pennyfeather. "Most extraordinary. The purser was with us, and he thought it would interest you. I wish you would join us." "I should regard id as gomplete waste of time," said Mr. Neilsen. "Surely, nothing can be waste of time that increases our knowledge of the bourne from which no traveler returns," replied the lyric lips of Mrs. Pennyfeather. "To me the methods are ridiculous," said Mr. Neilsen. "All this furniture removal! Ach!"