"'And now I have come with my lovely lost mate
To tread one last measure, drink one whiskey straight.'"
"Yes," blazed Mrs. Batholommey, "and I have always believed you put him up to it."
"Well," shrugged the noncommittal McPherson, "if I had, it would at least be more in keeping with what Sir Walter intended than your straining an immortal poem through a lemon-squeezer."
"Andrew and I," announced Peter, hastening to pour oil on the troubled waters of conversation, by filling two glasses and handing one of them to McPherson, "are going to drink a toast to spooks."
"What?" squealed Mrs. Batholommey, in the accents of a rabbit that has been stepped on.
"To spooks—we——"
"Oh, how can you?" she gasped. "How can you? To spooks! You of all men! The very idea!"
"Mrs. Batholommey!" exclaimed Peter in real alarm, setting down his glass and moving toward her. "Something has happened! You are quite——"
"No, no!" she wailed helplessly.
"It is nothing, Mr. Grimm," soothed the rector. "Nothing at all, I assure you. My wife is a trifle overwrought this morning. Nothing of any consequence. I mean—that is, of course—we must all keep our spirits up, Mr. Grimm."