"I recall the story of his life now. It was all very tragic. I wonder he didn't become a maniac."
"Some people think he did," answered Britt, dryly.
"So they're with Simeon. He lives gorgeously, I'm told."
"About like a lone American guest in a twenty-franc-per-day hotel in Paris. Why, yes, they're very comfortable there—all but the girl. She's discontented and unhappy, if I'm any judge, and is besieged day and night by the mourning faithful, not to speak of certain amorous males."
This hurt, and Serviss shifted ground. "Does she keep up her music?"
Again Britt smiled, but not humorously. "She plays the harp—in the dark."
"You mean—"
"She's taken on a lot more of the regulation tricks—materializing flowers, slate-writing, music without hands, etc."
"You don't mean it! I can hardly associate such doings with her," sorrow and indignation mingled in his voice.
"I assure you I was there last night at a 'circle,' and these things took place with Clarke as ring-master. There wasn't a particle of originality—it was the same old mill, and the same old grist, yet I don't hold her responsible in any harmful degree. I can't believe she designedly tricks, but she's surrounded now by a gang of chattering, soft-pated women, and men with bats in their belfry, who unite in assuring her that her God-given powers must be fostered. They've cut her off from any decent marriage—she's virtually a prisoner to their whims. What they may induce her to do next I don't know. I'm going to hang round here for a week or two and see." A violent fit of coughing interrupted him. When he recovered he looked up sidewise. "Isn't this a peach of a climate? Wouldn't you think they'd build at least one of their big cities where microbes couldn't fatten on genius?"