Then old Winnie persuaded her to have a glass of very hot port wine-negus, which agreed with her so well that she quickly fell asleep; and never did poor lady need repose more, or drink deeper and more tranquil draughts of that Lethe.
William Maubray was now wide awake, and he and the doctor, being a little chilly, sat before the study fire.
“It’s jolly, isn’t it?” exclaimed William for the seventh time. “But isn’t it all very odd, Sir, and very unaccountable—I—I think?”
“Very, very odd, to be sure,” said the doctor, poking the corner of a lump of coal—“very, no doubt.”
“I wish I had been awake. I should like to see one of those things—those séances. I had no idea there really was anything so coherent.”
“Very lucky for her,” replied the doctor, with a sly little wink to William.
William looked inquiringly at the doctor, who smiled on the poker’s end, and pushed the embers gently with it.
“You don’t believe in it, Sir—do you?” inquired William, puzzled.
“I? Well, I don’t know exactly what to say, you know. I put my foot in it on Sunday last, when I told her I did not believe a bit of it; nor more I did. Egad, you never saw a woman so angry, when I called it all bosh. You’d better not vex her that way, my boy—d’ye see? She lent me one of those wonderful queer books from America—very odd they are—and I read it to please her. So, you see, that’s how we stand; very good friends again.”
“And you are convinced it’s true?” urged William, who, like other young men who sit up late, and read wild books, and drink strong coffee, was, under the rose, addicted to the supernatural.