“Why! As a friend—a well-wisher—the kindest of hosts. I am afraid we are really eating you out of house and home.” She laughed a little. “Ah! When, when will this suspense be relieved! That poor lost Arthur! I confess that I am almost afraid of the great moment. It will be like seeing a ghost.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Renouard, in a dull voice.
She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was perfect in its ease and middle-aged grace.
“Not actually. Only in a photograph. But we have many friends who had the experience of apparitions.”
“Ah! They see ghosts in London,” mumbled Renouard, not looking at her.
“Frequently—in a certain very interesting set. But all sorts of people do. We have a friend, a very famous author—his ghost is a girl. One of my brother’s intimates is a very great man of science. He is friendly with a ghost . . . Of a girl too,” she added in a voice as if struck for the first time by the coincidence. “It is the photograph of that apparition which I have seen. Very sweet. Most interesting. A little cloudy naturally. . . . Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. It’s so consoling to think. . .”
“Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too,” said Renouard grimly.
The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What crudeness! It was always so with this strange young man.
“Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the superstitious fancies of your horrible savages with the manifestations . . . ”
Words failed her. She broke off with a very faint primly angry smile. She was perhaps the more offended with him because of that flutter at the beginning of the conversation. And in a moment with perfect tact and dignity she got up from her chair and left him alone.