Annandale laughed. "Grow on me," he repeated. "I like that. Why, I am cultivating it."
Miss Waldron laughed too. "Yes, but you know you must not. I won't let you." Then at once, with that tact which was part of her, she changed the subject. "Doesn't Fanny look well tonight?"
"Very. She is the prettiest girl in New York. But you are the best and the dearest. What is more, you are an angel."
"To you I want to try to be."
"Only," resumed Annandale with a spark of the wit which is born of champagne, "don't try to be a saint—it is a step backward."
"Yes, Mrs. Loftus," Orr was saying, "Miranda is fat, very fat. All mediums are. The fatter they are the more confidence you may have."
Then there was more small talk. Courses succeeded each other. Sweets came and went. Presently Mrs. Loftus looked circuitously about and slowly arose. When she and the girls had gone and the men were reseated Loftus turned to Orr.
"Did the spook say anything else?"
Orr was selecting a cigar from a cabinet on wheels which a servant trundled about. He chose and lighted one before he replied. Then he looked at Loftus.
"Yes, she told me that she saw—" Orr paused. The cigar had gone out. He lighted it again. "She told me that she saw death hereabouts."