“Professor Summerlee died, you know, at Naples last year.”
“Yes, I remember him well.”
“And ‘old C.’ was, of course, your father.”
“It was really remarkable.”
“Poor old Summerlee. He thought survival was an absurdity. And here he is—or here he seems to be.”
The soup-plates returned—it was mostly brown soup, unhappily, and they were deposited on the table where the eager eye of the secretary appraised their value. Then the little shaggy man from Australia gave a benediction in the same simple fashion as the opening prayer. It needed no Apostolic succession or laying-on of hands to make one feel that his words were from a human heart and might well go straight to a Divine one. Then the audience rose and sang their final farewell hymn—a hymn with a haunting tune and a sad, sweet refrain of “God keep you safely till we meet once more.” Enid was surprised to feel the tears running down her cheeks. These earnest, simple folk with their direct methods had wrought upon her more than all the gorgeous service and rolling music of the cathedral.
Mr. Bolsover, the stout president, was in the waiting-room and so was Mrs. Debbs.
“Well, I expect you are going to let us have it,” he laughed. “ We are used to it, Mr. Malone. We don’t mind. But you will see the turn some day. These articles may rise up in judgment.”
“I will treat it fairly, I assure you.”
“Well, we ask no more.”
The medium was leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece, austere and aloof.
“I am afraid you are tired,” said Enid.
