"No, George, that is not what I was going to say. I could not forgive his Philistine taste if he had not brought home all those delicious things from China, and built the Mandarin's room. That is the redeeming feature which makes the house worth having."
"Every one admits that it is a fine room," said Allan. "There is no such room in the neighbourhood, except at Discombe."
"Your father must see Discombe, Allan. We must introduce him to Mrs. Wornock."
"I think not, mother. He would be insufferably bored by a woman who believes in spirit-rapping, sees visions, and plays the organ for hours at a stretch."
His father looked at him intently.
"Who is this person?" he asked quickly.
"A rich widow, whose son is lord of the manor of Discombe, one of the most important places between here and Salisbury."
"And she believes in spiritualism. Curious in a lady living in the country. I thought that kind of thing had died out with Home, and the famous article in the Cornhill Magazine."
"We have had later prophets. Eglinton, for instance, with his materializations and his slate-writing. I don't think the spiritualistic idea is dead yet, in spite of the ridicule which the outside herd has cast upon it."
"I hope the widow lady is not beguiling you into sharing her delusions, Allan."