"Now that's something we'll have to investigate," Val interrupted her. "Do ghosts have union rules? I mean, I wouldn't want Great-great-uncle Rick to march up and down the carriage drive with a sign reading, 'The Ralestones are unfair to ghosts,' or anything like that."
"We'll have to use the Long Hall, of course," cut in Rupert, as usual ignoring their nonsense. "And the old summer drawing-room. But we can shut up the dining-room and the ball-room. We'll eat in the kitchen, and that and a bedroom apiece—"
"I suppose there are bathrooms, or at least a bathroom," his brother interrupted. "Because I don't care to rush down to the bayou for a good brisk plunge every time I get my face dirty."
"Harrison put in a bathroom at his own expense last fall."
"For which blessed be the name of Harrison. If he hadn't gone to Italy, he would have rebuilt the house. How soon do we get there? This touring is not what I thought it might be—"
The crease which had appeared so recently between Rupert's eyes deepened.
"Leg hurt, Val?" he asked quietly, glancing at the slim figure sharing his seat.
"No. I'm expressing curiosity this time, old man, not just a whine. But if we're going to be this far off the main highway—"
"Oh, it's not far from the city road. We ought to be seeing the gate-posts any moment now."
"Prophet!" Ricky leaned forward between them. "See there!"