“Do you really believe that, James?” she demanded seriously. “Have you never felt that something that was not you was living, breathing, speaking in this earthly shell of yours? Something that was not you, I say. Something that———”
“Never!” he exclaimed quickly, but his eyes were full of the wonder that he felt.
“Frederic,” she called imperatively, “come away from that window!”
The young man joined the group. The sullen look in his face had given way to one of acute inquiry. The new note in her voice produced a strange effect upon him. It seemed like a call for help, a cry out of the darkness.
“It is raining pitchforks,” he said, as if to explain his failure to respond at the first call.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Lydia uncomfortably.
“You can't go out in the storm, my dear,” cried Yvonne, tightening her grip on the girl's arm. “Draw up a chair, Freddy. Let's be cosy.
“Really, Mrs Brood, I should go at once. Mother———”
“Your mother is in bed and asleep,” protested Yvonne.
“We should all be in bed,” said Frederic.