Curious, when one begins to think on a subject, how it sometimes comes up in the most unexpected places.
I dropped into the dining room for tea this afternoon after Jane’s bridge party, to find Jane looking uncomfortable and an animated conversation on spiritualism going on, with Helena Lear leading it.
“Ah!” she said when she saw me, “here comes our cynic. I suppose you don’t believe in automatic writing either?”
“I should,” I replied gravely. “I have seen as many as fifty men taking notes while in a trance in my lecture room.”
“Nor in spirits?”
“Certainly I do. And in the Smoke of Prophecy, and the Powder of Death.”
She looked rather blank, and Jane flushed a trifle.
“What is more,” I said, a trifle carried away by the tenseness of the room, perhaps, “I know that if I take a piece
