LITMIR.BIZ

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telling herself the while, with a certain irritation, that Lionel was not showing his usual alert intelligence. It was all very well to invite this young woman who had been so kind to poor Milly; and the fact that she and her tiresome old uncle and aunt were, if Lionel was right, very wealthy, was not without a certain interest. But still—!

      Blanche, with a certain grim, inward smile, remembered a story she had thought at the time rather funny. That of a lady who had said to her husband, “Oh, do come and see them, they are so very rich.” And he had answered, “My dear, I would if it were catching!”

      Unfortunately, Blanche Farrow had only too much reason to know that wealth is not catching. Also, to one with her brilliant, acute mind, there was something peculiarly irritating in the sight of very rich people who didn’t know how to use their wealth, either to give themselves, or others, pleasure. Such people, she felt sure, were Mr. and Miss Burnaby—and doubtless, also, their heiress, Helen Brabazon.

      “Bubbles!” she exclaimed imperiously, under her breath. “Come here for a minute.” And Bubbles, with a touch of reluctance, got up and left the three men to whom she was talking.

      As she came towards her, her aunt was struck by the girl’s look of ill-health and unease.

      “I wish you could think of something that would stir us all up,” she said in a low voice. And then, in a lower voice still, for her niece was now close to her, “The Burnabys look the sort of people who would enjoy a parlour game,” she said rather crossly.

      And then, all of a sudden, Bubbles gave a queer little leap into the air. “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “Let’s hold a séance!”

      “A séance?” repeated Blanche Farrow in a dubious tone. “I don’t think Miss Burnaby would enjoy that at all.”

      “Oh, but she would!”—Bubbles spoke confidently. “Didn’t you hear her at dinner? She was telling Sir Lyon about some friend of hers who’s become tremendously keen about that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, Blanche” (these two had never been on very formal terms together, and in a way Bubbles was much fonder of her aunt than her aunt was of her)—“To tell you the truth, Blanche,” she repeated, “ever since I arrived here I’ve told myself that it would be rather amusing to try something of the kind. It’s a strange old house; there’s a funny kind of atmosphere about it; I felt it the moment I arrived.”

      The other looked at her sharply. “I’ve always avoided that sort of thing, and I don’t see it doing you much good, Bubbles! You know how your father feels about it?”

      Miss Farrow did not often interfere in other people’s affairs, but she had suddenly remembered certain phrases in her brother-in-law’s letter.

      “Daddy has been put up to making a fuss by a goody-goody widow who’s making up to him just now.” Bubbles spoke lightly, but she looked vexed.

      Blanche Farrow felt sorry she had said anything. Bubbles was behaving very nicely just now. It was the greatest comfort to have her here. So she said, smiling, “Oh, well, I shan’t regret your trying something of the kind if you can galvanize these dull folk into life.”

      “I’ll do more than that,” said Bubbles easily. “I’ll give them creeps! But, Blanche? I want you to back me up if I say I’m tired, or don’t want to go on with it.”

      Blanche Farrow felt surprised. “I don’t quite understand,” she exclaimed. “Aren’t we going to do table-turning?”

      “No,” said the girl deliberately. “We’re going to have a séance—a sitting. And I’m going to be the medium.”

      “Oh, Bubbles! Is that wise?” She looked uncomfortably into the girl’s now eager, flushed face. “D’you think you know enough about these people to be a success at it this very first evening?”

      Bubbles’ gift of thought reading would of course come in; also the girl was a clever actress; still, that surely wouldn’t take her very far with a set of people of whom she knew nothing.

      “The only one I’m afraid of,” said Bubbles thoughtfully, “is Mr. Burnaby. He’s such a proper old thing! He might really object—object on the same ground as Daddy’s tiresome widow does. However, I can but try.”

      She pirouetted round, and quickly drew with her foot a gilt footstool from under an Empire settee. She stood upon it and clapped her hands. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she cried. “This is a time of year when ghosts are said to walk. Why shouldn’t we hold a séance, here and now, and call up spirits from the vasty deep?”

      “But will they come?” quoted Sir Lyon, smiling up into her eager, sensitive little face.

      Sir Lyon was quite enjoying Lionel Varick’s Christmas house-party. For one thing, he was interested in his host’s personality. In a small way he had long made a study of Lionel Varick, and it amused him to see Varick in a new rôle—that of a prosperous country gentleman.

      Suddenly Bubbles found an ally in a most unexpected quarter. Helen Brabazon called out: “I’ve always longed to attend a séance! I did once go to a fortune-teller, and it was thrilling—.”

      Bubbles stepped down off her footstool. She had the gift—which her aunt also possessed—of allowing another to take the field.

      “If it was so exciting,” said Lionel Varick dryly, “I wonder that you only went once, Miss Brabazon.”

      Helen’s face grew grave. “I’ll tell you about it some day,” she said in a low voice; “as a matter of fact, it was just before you and I first met.”

      “Yes,” said Varick lightly. “And what happened? Do tell me!”

      Helen turned to him, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “She described Milly—I mean the fortune-teller described Milly, almost exactly. She told me that Milly was going to play a great part in my life.”

      And then she felt sharply sorry she had said as much or as little as she had said, for her host’s face altered; it became, from a healthy pallor, a deep red.

      “Forgive me!” she exclaimed. “Forgive me! I oughtn’t to have told you—”

      “Don’t say that. You can tell me anything!”

      Blanche Farrow, who had now moved forward to the fireplace, would again have been very much surprised had she heard the intense, intimate tone in which Lionel Varick uttered those few words to his late wife’s friend.

      Helen blushed—a deep, sudden blush—and Sir Lyon, looking at her across the room, told himself that she was a remarkable-looking girl, and that he would like to make friends with her. He liked the earnest, old-fashioned type of girl—but fate rarely threw him into the company of such a one.

      “It is quite unnecessary for any of you to move,” observed Bubbles in a business-like tone; “but we are likely to obtain much better results if we blow out the candles. The firelight will be quite enough.”

      And then, to everyone’s surprise, Miss Burnaby spoke. Her voice was gentle and fretful. “I thought that there always had to be a medium at a séance,” she observed; “when I went with a friend of mine to what she called a Circle, there was a medium there, and we each paid her half-a-crown.”

      “Of course there must be a medium,” said Bubbles quickly. “And I am going to be the medium this time, Miss Burnaby; but it will be all free and for nothing—I always do it for love!”

      Varick looked at his young guest with a good deal of gratitude. He had never numbered himself among the girl’s admirers. To him Bubbles was like a caricature of her aunt. But now he told himself that there was something to say, after all, for this queer younger generation who dare everything! He supposed that Bubbles was going to entertain them with a clever exhibition of brilliant acting. Lionel Varick was no mean actor himself, and it was as connoisseur, as well as expert, that he admired the gift when it was practised by others.

      Spiritualism, table-turning,

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