"But, indeed, we do, old chap," said Poppy.
"Niece!" said Lady Mabel, turning about in her chair, "address your creator with more respect."
"Stay, my lady," said the parson. "Allow me to explain matters to Mr. Leveridge. He is young and an inexperienced writer of fiction, and is therefore unaware of the exigencies of his profession. You must know, dear author of our being, that every author of a work of imagination, such as you have been, lays himself under a moral and an inexorable obligation to find bodies for all those whom he has called into existence through his fertile brain. Mr. Leveridge has not mixed in the literary world. He does not belong to the Society of Authors. He is—he will excuse the expression—raw in his profession. It is a well-known law among novelists that they must furnish bodies for such as they have called into existence out of their pure imagination. For this reason they invariably call their observation to their assistance, and they balance in their books the creations with the transcripts from life. The only exception to this rule that I am aware of," continued the parson, "is where the author is able to get his piece dramatised, in which case, of course, the difficulty ceases."
"I should love to go on the stage," threw in Poppy.
"Niece, you do not know what you say," remarked Lady Mabel, turning herself about.
"Allow me, my lady," said the parson. "What I have said is fact, is it not?"
"Most certainly," replied all. Lady Mabel said: "I suppose it is."
"Then," pursued the parson, "the situation is this: Have you secured the dramatisation of your novel?"
"I never gave it a thought," said Joseph.
"In that case, as there is no prospect of our being so accommodated, the position is this: We shall have to haunt you night and day, mainly at night, till you have accommodated us with bodies; we cannot remain as phantom creations of a highly imaginative soul such as is yours, Mr. Leveridge. If you have your rights, so have we. And we insist on ours, and will insist till we are satisfied."