“There are fifteen tables set out—yes, set out,—in the green boudoir.”
“Bedad!” remarked an Irish colonel, “then it’s meself’ll enjoy a good rubber.”
“For table-turning,” added Mrs. Bridgeman. “Materialisation in the same room after supper. Mr. Towle—yes—will enter the cabinet at about eleven. Where’s Madame Charlotte?”
“Looking into the crystal for Lady Ferrier,” said someone.
“Oh, and the professor?”
“He’s reading Archdeacon Andrew’s nose, by the cloak-room.”
Mrs. Bridgeman sighed.
“It seems to be going off quite pleasantly,” she said vaguely to the Prophet. “I think—perhaps—might I have a cup of tea?”
The Prophet offered his arm. Mrs. Bridgeman took it. They walked forward, and almost instantly came upon Sir Tiglath Butt, who, with a face even redder than usual, was rolling away from the hall of the guitars, holding one enormous hand to his ear and snorting indignantly at the various clairvoyants, card-readers, spiritualists and palmists whom he encountered at every step he took. The Prophet turned pale, and Lady Enid, who was just behind him, put on her most sensible expression and moved quickly forward.
“Ah, Sir Tiglath!” she said. “How delightful of you to come! Catherine, dear, let me introduce Sir Tiglath Butt to you. Sir Tiglath Butt—Mrs. Vane Bridgeman.”