"I know what you are going to ask—why did I make such a wide frill about the bottle's neck? 'Tis easy to explain. I never took my bag to church to warm my hands—'twas my stomach!"
"Oh!" said Miss Julie, faltering slightly, fearing that this relative might become vulgar like the terrible Gobies still dancing about Lord Cornbury.
"Yes," continued the other, "when William fell asleep during the sermon I used to sink down well in the pew, put the frill up to my mouth, squeeze the end of the bag, and get as much as a dram of whiskey."
"Oh!" exclaimed Julie, aghast; "a hot-water bag for whiskey!"
"Why not?" said the ghost, angrily. Her manner was that of one who had expected commendation for her cleverness. The plumes in her head-dress were shaking violently.
"Why not, miss?" she asked again. "You are far too nice. At any rate you know the reason for those tomfool bag-covers. 'Twas to deaden the smell of liquor. Your generation of Yorkers does not appreciate them as we did." Then her voice broke into derisive sniggers, as she glided away.
And now upon the strange company fell the bellowing of some faithful passing watchman.
"Midnight's here and fair weather!"
A sleepy cock crowed in a distant Chelsea barn.
The faces of the shades began to blanch and assume the lack-lustre tint of ashes. The lady of the banished portrait touched Patricia as if giving her a last embrace, and her smile at Richard Sheridan was full of good wishes.