He had a way of radiating his own cheerful mood. "Oh yes," I assured him. "It's an exceptional day when we don't sweep a D.A.R. or two out of the aisles come closing time."
This, according to his laugh, was quite good. He said, "I'm sure we'll get on splendidly, Miss—?"
"—Hopstead."
"Are you a native?"
"A New Englander from way back," I assured him. "Some of my ancestors used to drink buttered rum with Captain Rogers."
"Then possibly you'd like to know about my work."
"I certainly would." And, strangely enough, I did.
"I am a researcher into the—well, the unusual."
"Psychic research?" I inquired, wanting him to know we New Englanders were not dullards.
"No. Nothing to do with the supernatural at all. My work is to prove that all occurrences, however mysterious, are the logical result of previous actions of individuals; that superstitions are the result, not so much of ignorance, but lack of knowledge."