“I said ‘Cheap? It was a shame to cheat the poor devil in that fashion.’ And she said, ‘Wasn’t it a bargain? He wanted a hundred, but I brought him down.’”
“You must have been keeping queer company in New York,” said Henrietta Gillett.
“Not at all. It was at Mrs. Baudeleigh’s house, and the woman—well, her husband’s one of the biggest lawyers in New York. But, then, that’s no worse than the astrology some of us here have gone daft over.”
“Oh—astrology—that’s a different matter,” objected Mrs. Thayer. “You evidently haven’t looked into it. That is a science—not at all the same as palmistry and spiritualism, and those frauds.”
Cecilia smiled—the amused, pitying smile of wisdom in the presence of ludicrous ignorance—and looked at Frothingham. He returned her look—pleased to have a secret, and such an intimate secret, in common with her. “But don’t you think you’re a bit rash, Mrs. Thayer?” he drawled. “You certainly believe in ghosts, now, don’t you?”
Miss Gillett’s handsome, high-bred face expressed astonishment. “Do you?” she asked, before Mrs. Thayer could answer him.
“We can’t doubt it over on our side. We’ve too much evidence of it. And—I was listening to an old chap from Cambridge—your Cambridge—very clever old fellow, I thought—Yarrow, wasn’t it? Yes, Yarrow.”
“Yarrow!” Miss Gillett’s eyes flashed scorn. “He’s a disgrace to New England. We pride ourselves on having the culture of Emerson and the other great men of our past. What would they think of us if they could look in on us with our Yarrows and our Gonga Sahds and our Mrs. Ramsays. All the sensible people in the country must be laughing at us. Pardon me, Lord Frothingham—I’m very indignant at what I regard as superstitions and impostors. It’s only my view.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Frothingham with an uneasy glance at Cecilia’s angry face. “I’m not one of those who wish all to believe alike. What the devil should we do if we hadn’t each other’s opinions to laugh at?”
“You’re such an ardent disciple,” continued Miss Gillett, “you ought to go to Yarrow’s Mrs. Ramsay. She’ll put you in communication with spirits, as many as you like, or rather as many as you care to pay for. I think she gets ten a ghost—twenty for letters.”