Stannard, who had returned to the chair with his cigar, spoke gravely.
"You mean, Mr. Drake, that since the war you have found life in England dull and intolerably frustrating?"
"If — you want to put it like that, yes."
"Will you forgive me, Mr. Drake, for saying you are very young?’
"Will you forgive me, Mr. Stannard, for saying that you are a little pompous?"
Again Stannard chuckled. Perhaps he was doing this too much. His lips were drawn back from the teeth in a fixed, pleasant smile; his small black eyes glittered.
"Of course I forgive you," Stannard said heartily. "I have achieved—" he glanced at Ruth, evidently himself feeling young and callow at forty-five, and hating it—"I have achieved some small success In this world. That breeds pomposity sometimes. God knows I try to avoid it" His tone changed. "Are you serious about wanting to meet earthbound spirits?"
"Quite serious."
"Ah? Suppose I arranged it?"
Ruth Callice was now sitting bolt upright on the sofa. Her lips opened as though in expostulation, but she did not speak.