the other guests. All about me was bedlam. I looked around for some means of escape, but the noisy cacklers hemmed me in. In desperation, I turned to my hostess.
"Why are we here?" I pleaded. "What does all this mean? Is it true what they say?"
She nodded sympathetically, and as she spoke, the hilarity of the others died down.
"We are here because we all happen to have some social link, remote or near, with the former occupants of this house—this former house, I should say; for this is the ghost of the home of the ghosts of a couple who died years ago."
I stammered: "Then the house—too—is not real?"
The foreigner seated beyond my hostess bent forward and began a grave harangue.
"Call this house real, or call it immaterial. Those phrases mean nothing to us," he expounded. "It frequently happens, of course, that a building is erected on ground previously occupied by some other structure. You must understand that the material parts of a dwelling may be removed at any time, but its astral shell will remain. Thus the ghosts of many houses may remain on a site occupied by a new and substantial structure. They are none the less real for being unseen by living eyes."
This might have gone on and on, but was interrupted by a noisy outburst from the gentleman with the pink nose, whose convivial spirits seemed to have struck a snag. I saw the irritated gentleman, who freely punctured his actions with oaths, pour himself a half a goblet of sherry. He called for brandy, with which he filled the goblet to the brim. Muttering angrily, he seized a caster of red pepper, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the whole contents into the mixture he had made. He stirred up the mess, closed his eyes, and drank it in one gulp.
I expected to see him spit and gag. Instead, he paused with eyes tightly closed for a moment and then opened them wide. I have never seen such disappointment. I thought he was about to cry:
"It has no taste, no pep," he mourned. "I'd give my right eye for one good shot of whisky."
My hostess leaned toward me.
"That is the way with pleasures in the afterworld," she said. "They do not exist. Sometimes one of us rebels. It is pathetic—and useless. The trouble is that our old habits survive, but the wisdom of death deprives us of the imagination to enjoy them."
"But you"—I interrupted her—"you do not seem to rebel as do the others"
She shook her head gravely and explained simply:
"I am more fortunate than most. You see, I was unhappy during my lifetime in the flesh. Here I find contentment." At the dreadful implication of these words, I leaped from my seat.
"But I"—I shouted—"I cannot accept—I will not accept unhappiness. There is one bliss that nothing can take from me!"
I cried my beloved's name. "Helen, come here!"
She walked slowly toward me, almost unwillingly, it seemed to me. I was so wild with grief, terror and desperation, I did not notice the sadness of Helen's eyes—sadness which should have warned me against what I was about to do.
"Kiss me, Helen," I commanded. "Kiss me and defy this madness. We will never accept!"
I opened my arms.
