"Are you a spiritualist?" Cecil asks with awe.
"Nothing half so paltry. There is no deception about my performance. It is simplicity itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder. Have you ever seen one?"
"A devil? Never."
"Should you like to?"
"Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm.
"Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to the honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, and call you when it is ready."
In twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising, both girls quit the drawing-room.
With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into the library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies the middle of the floor.
On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Potts has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until, according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness.
"Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly.