“Yes, yes,” cried Mrs. Bridgeman, trembling with excitement. “He’s promised to after supper. He says he feels less material then—more en rapport with the dear spirits.”
“How delightful! Mr. Towle, tell me, do you agree with Eureka? I await your fiat. Am I astral?”
“Ay, miss, as like as not,” said the great man, twisting his lips as if they held a straw between them. “Astral, that’s it. That’s it to a T.”
“Then I’m Lady Enid Thistle, my ancestress, who’s always with me?”
“Ay, ay! Every bit of her. Her ladyship to a T.”
The company was much impressed, and whispers of “It’s Lady Enid; Eureka and Mr. Towle say it’s her ladyship in the astral plane!” flew like wildfire through the rooms.
At this point Harriet Browne, who was sufficiently Christian and scientific to like to have all the attention of the company centred upon her, cleared her throat loudly and exclaimed,—
“If I am to heal this poor sufferer, I must be provided with an armchair.”
“An armchair for Mrs. Browne!”
“Fetch a chair for Harriet!”