Beresford took little part in the conversation. He was accustomed to having Lola to himself, and found it difficult to reconcile himself to sharing her with others. Mrs. Crisp fascinated him. He had never met any one of such undammable loquacity. Words streamed from her lips as water from a hose. A chance word would send her off at a tangent. Sometimes he found it difficult to control his features as, in her haste, she occasionally transposed the initial letters of two words, as, for instance, when complaining of the off-hand manner of one of the porters, instead of describing him as she intended as "nearly rude," she informed Drewitt that he was "really nude."
"You must come to one of our séances," she cried to Drewitt. "I've never known any one like Mr. Quelch, so psychic."
Drewitt screwed his monocle into his eye and gazed at Mr. Quelch with grave interest, as if he had been a specimen of some unknown fauna. Mr. Quelch fidgeted under the scrutiny as, by a dexterous movement of the backs of his hands, he readjusted his cuffs, which had slipped down.
"Are you interested in psychical research?" enquired Lola, looking from Beresford to Drewitt.
"I'm afraid," said Drewitt, "that I'm too pre-occupied with the substance of this world to have time for the shadow of the next."
"But think, Lord Drewitt," cried Mrs. Crisp, "you can talk to all your friends who have passed over. Only the other night my dear sister came.
