Mr. P. So it will. That’s a good idea. (She takes wig out of box. Mr. P. puts it on.)
Mrs. L. That’s capital. Now stoop a little, and no one would be likely to recognize you, particularly if they had just waked.
(Flora covers herself again and feigns sleep. Mr. P. enters her room and advances to lounge. Flora moves uneasily; then opens her eyes, and fixes them upon her visitor.)
F. (in apparent horror). Who are you?
Mr. P. (in sepulchral voice). Flora Willis, I am the spirit of your dead husband.
F. But why do you appear to me in this way? If you are really he, why should you come to me at the dead of night?
Mr. P. (in hollow tones). We, who are tenants of another sphere, mingle not with mortals; and it is only when all eyes are closed in slumber that we are permitted to walk the earth.
F. (gaining confidence). But what is your object in coming?
Mr. P. (slowly). I come to warn and advise you. You are young, and, I know, cherish my memory fondly; but I feel sure that you would be happier and enjoy life more, if you should marry again.
F. But who is there I should be happy with?