"But you don't understand," he said. "It has nothing to do with my wanting or not; it just comes. This afternoon I couldn't help writing any more than—than one can help sneezing."
"You can if you rub your nose the wrong way," said Jessie flippantly.
"No amount of rubbing my nose either the right way or the wrong way would have the slightest effect," said Archie. "The thing is imperative: if Martin wants me to write, I must write. But he says here that he's not going to guide me; I must look after myself. I'm sorry for that."
"I'm not," said Jessie quickly. "There's something strange and uncanny about it. I'm not sure that I think it's right even."
She paused a moment.
"Archie, do you really believe that it is the spirit of Martin that makes you write? " she said. "Are you sure"
He interrupted her.
"I know what you mean," he said. "It's what the Roman Catholics teach, that any communication of the sort, given that it is genuine, and not some mere mediumistic trick, is not less than converse with some evil being impersonating, masquerading as the spirit from whom the communication apparently comes. Do you mean that?"
Jessie frowned, fingering the edge of the table.
"Yes, I suppose I do," she said. "I think the whole thing is dangerous; I don't think it's a thing to meddle with."
"But I don't meddle with it," said Archie. "It meddles with me. Besides, did you ever hear of such an unwarranted assumption? Mightn't I almost as well say that a letter which reaches me from my mother doesn't really come from her, but from some evil creature impersonating her? It seems simpler to
