They made a good meal, but though my wife had thoughtfully prepared a dish of which I was very fond--a tongue stewed with raisins--I ate very little.
"No appetite, Ned?" said Bob.
I shook my head gloomily.
"He is out of sorts, Mr. Millet," said my wife, "and I am delighted you are here to cheer him up. He has me to thank for his low spirits; it is all because of my stupid wish to leave the house in which we are as comfortable as we could reasonably hope to be. I have worried him to death, almost, dragging him about against his will--though he has never complained--from morning till night for I don't know how long past. He is not half the man he was; he doesn't eat well and he doesn't sleep well, and I am to blame for it."
She was ready to cry with remorse, and I felt ashamed of myself for not having the strength to battle with the delusion which surely would not torture me forever.
I patted her on the shoulder, and put on a more cheerful countenance. She brightened up instantly, and then Bob asked whether we had been to 79 Lamb's Terrace.
"Yes, we have," said my wife, "and I am truly thankful that we got out of it safely."
"Ah!" said Bob, lifting his eyes.
"You were right, Mr. Millet," said my wife, "the house is haunted."
"Oh," said Bob, "I only told you what I had heard. For my part, I don't even know where Lamb's Terrace is."