"There's something worrying me, old girl," he said.
"What is it, Jim?" said Mrs. Croombe.
"Well," said Mr. Croombe, throwing away his cigar end, "have I seemed queer at all lately?"
"No," said his wife anxiously.
"Not as if I might be subject to—er—hallucinations?"
"Oh no, Jim."
"Well," he said, "it's a strange thing. I was coming along the road to-day—I suddenly saw a boy—I hadn't noticed him before, and he seemed suddenly to appear—a most peculiar expression—most peculiar—very intense and searching, as if he had some message—you know, I'm never quite sure that there's nothing in spiritualism. Well, I kept thinking about it as I changed—that peculiar piercing expression—wondering, you know, whether it was hallucination or a message, or anything, you know. There was something not ordinary about his expression, and," he was obviously reaching the climax of the story—"well, you may hardly believe me, but—this evening, as we sat at dinner, I looked up and distinctly saw the same boy standing in the doorway and looking at me again with that peculiar expression. He wore a strange flowing garment this time. I pinched myself and looked round the room, and then, again at the door, and he'd disappeared. Yet I swear I saw him, with just that extraordinary expression, looking at me—just for a minute."
Mrs. Croombe, open-mouthed, laid aside her sewing.
"My dear Jim!" she said. "How extraordinary! I wonder—you might try psycho-analysis if the vision comes again—it's quite fashionable!"
"I hope," said Mr. Croombe, "that it won't appear again. It wasn't," he confessed, "on the whole, a pleasant expression."