Joyce lit a cigarette, and puffed out a little wreath of smoke, daintily.
“I hate to tell you I’ve had the silver slipper! But if the worst comes to the worst, I hope I’ll go scornfully to death!”
Bertram looked at her, and though he did not believe the ridiculous explanation of the silver slipper, he could not resist a tribute of admiration in his eyes. Joyce had more pluck than any man in the crowd. If the impossible happened, she would go “scornfully to death!” With patrician pride. She read his thoughts, and a wave of colour rose to her forehead, and for a moment her eyes softened to him. Then she turned away, with a word about the boredom of the subject.
“Why not some Ouija board?” she asked. “Peter, you’re a wonder with the spirit world!”
It was the Reverend Peter Fynde who took the centre of the room. He hoped that if they experimented a little it would be with reverence. He deprecated the frivolous way in which some people approached the world beyond the veil, as so many were doing it in society now.
Bertram groaned.
“I call it blasphemy. To me, there’s something horrible and indecent in this attempt to ‘call up’ the dead.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Joyce. “The other day we were in touch with Hal and Dudy. They spoke as they used to—the old home slang. One could not doubt.”
“It was all being drawn from your subconscious mind, Joyce. But I object to the whole business. It’s unhealthy. It’s rotten and decadent.”
“You needn’t stay,” said Joyce.