Lydia, whose honest heart had been so full of resentment the moment before, could not withstand the humble appeal in the voice of the penitent.
She smiled, first at Yvonne, then at Brood, and never quite understood the impulse that ordered her to kiss the warm, red lips that so recently had offended.
“James dear,” fell softly, alluringly, from Yvonne's now tremulous lips. He sprang to her side. She kissed him passionately. “Now we are all ourselves once more,” she gasped a moment later, her eyes still fixed inquiringly on those of the man beside her. “Let us be gay! Let us forget! Come, Frederic! Sit here at my feet. Lydia is not going home yet. Ranjab, the cigarettes!”
Frederic, white-faced and scowling, remained at the window, glaring out into the rain-swept night. A steady sheet of raindrops thrashed against the window-panes.
“Hear the wind!” cried Yvonne, after a single sharp glance at his tall, motionless figure. “One can almost imagine that ghosts from every graveyard in the world are whistling past our windows. Should we not rejoice? We have them safely locked outside. There are no ghosts in here to make us shiver—and—shake.”
The sentence that began so glibly trailed off in a slow crescendo, ending abruptly. Ranjab was holding the lighted taper for her cigarette. As she spoke her eyes were lifted to his dark, saturnine face. She was saying there were no ghosts when his eyes suddenly fastened on hers. In spite of herself her voice rose in response to the curious dread that chilled her heart as she looked into the shining mirrors above her. She shivered as if in the presence of death! For an incalculably brief period their gaze remained fixed and steady, each reading a mystery. Then the Hindu lowered his heavy lashes and moved away. The little by-scene did not go unnoticed by the others, although its meaning was lost.
“There's nothing to be afraid of, Yvonne,” said Brood, pressing the hand which trembled in his. “Your imagination carries you a long way. Are you really afraid of ghosts?”
She answered in a deep, solemn voice that carried conviction.
“I believe in ghosts. I believe the dead come back to us, not to flit about as we are told by superstition, but to lodge—actually to dwell—inside these warm, living bodies of ours. They come and go at will. Sometimes we feel that they are there, but—oh, who knows? Their souls may conquer ours and go on inhabiting———”
“Nonsense!” cried her husband. “Once dead, always dead, my dear.”