Bridgeman, who seemed to be somewhat
confused, and whose manner grew increasingly vague as the evening wore
on, now said to those nearest to her,--
"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.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333