CATHERINE. [Impressed.] That's wonderful, Doctor!
PETER. Yes, it's a very pretty fairy story; but it would sound better set to shivery music. [Sings.] Tol! Dol! Dol! Dol! [Rising to get his pipe and tobacco.] No, sir! I refuse to agree to your compact. You cannot pick the lock of heaven's gate. We don't come back. God did enough for us when he gave us life and strength to work and the work to do. He owes us no explanations. I believe in the old-fashioned paradise with a locked gate. [He fills his pipe and lights it.] No bogies for me.
DR. MACPHERSON. [Rising.] Peter, I console myself with the thought that men have scoffed at the laws of gravitation, at vaccination, magnetism, daguerreotypes, steamboats, cars, telephones, wireless telegraphy and lighting by gas. [Showing feeling.] I'm very much disappointed that you refuse my request.
PETER. [Laying down his pipe on the table.] Since you take it so seriously—here—[Offers his hand.] I'll agree. I know you're an old fool—and I'm another. Now then—[Shakes hands.] it's settled. Whichever one shall go first—[He bursts into laughter—then controlling himself.] If I do come back, I'll apologize, Andrew.
DR. MACPHERSON. Do you mean it?
PETER. I'll apologize. Wait [Taking the keys from the sideboard.], let us seal the compact in a glass of my famous plum brandy.
DR. MACPHERSON. Good!
PETER. [As he passes off.] We'll drink to spooks.
CATHERINE. You really do believe, Doctor, that the dead can come back, don't you?
DR. MACPHERSON. Of course I do, and why not?