"Again?" repeated Lorelie. "Do you often fall into this state?"
"Occasionally—when gazing too long at some bright object: and then the object seems to whisper its history to me, or rather, as Godfrey more sensibly remarks, my mind begins to weave all kinds of fancies around it."
"Why, you must be a clairvoyante," said Lorelie, studying the other intently. "'The ashes of the dead?' Yes, this may be a crematory vase. What do you say, Ivar?" she added, turning to the viscount.
"Of course Beatrice knows," was his reply, "for is she not a daughter of the gods, a descendant of a Norse prophetess? But, Beatrice, I think that the blood of Hilda the Alruna must have become so diluted during the course of ten centuries that your claim to the hereditary gift of intuition is a little laughable."
"I am not aware of having made any such claim," replied Beatrice, quietly.
"And such claim, if made, would be justified," retorted Idris, roused by Lord Walden's sneering air, "for Miss Ravengar has given me previous proof of possessing remarkable intuitive powers."
"Let us say no more on the matter," said Lorelie, gently.
She restored the urn to its place on the mantelpiece, and, desirous of removing the somewhat unpleasant impression created by the incident, immediately started a conversation on other topics.
The talk turned presently upon literature, and Idris, remembering that Lorelie was an author, said:—