“THE scales,” said Mr. Preemby, “have fallen from my eyes.”
He had chosen a seat upon the Common which commanded an extensive view of the town, the town crowned by the green cupolas of the Opera House and lying as though the houses had been shot out of a cart down the long incline to the Pantiles. Beyond were the wide distances of the Kentish hill country, blue and remote.
Christina Alberta waited for more.
“This experience,” said Mr. Preemby, speaking with an occasional h’rrmp; “all these experiences—difficult to relate. Naturally I think you are of a sceptical disposition—taking after your dear mother. She was very sceptical. Of psychic phenomena in particular. She said it was Nonsense. And when your dear mother said a thing was Nonsense, then it was Nonsense. It only made things disagreeable if you argued it was anything else. As for myself—always the open mind. No dogma either way. I just refrained.”
“But, Daddy, have you been having psychic experiences? How could you have psychic experiences down here?”
“Let me tell you the story in due order. I want you to see it as I saw it—in due order.”
“How did it begin?”
Mr. Preemby held up a propitiatory hand. “Please! In my own way,” he said.
Christina Alberta bit her lips and scrutinized the tranquil resolution of his profile. There was no hurrying him; he had to tell his tale as he had prepared it.
“I do not think,” said Mr. Preemby, “that mine is a very credulous sort of mind. It is true I am not given to argument. I do not say very much. But I think and observe. I think and observe and I have a kind of gift for judging people. I do not think I am a very easy man to deceive.