“I’m sure it’ll be a great improvement,” she reassured him.

He brightened.

“I’m glad you think so. Of course, we’re going to keep everything just the same.”

“I guess it must be a tremendous responsibility to own a place like this,” said Earle, who was being much impressed.

Edward opened the folding-doors into the drawing-room. The room was nearly dark, for the shutters had been closed. Only one light lit in the chandelier. Edward walked across to the big mirror, regarded himself for a moment, then raised one arm above his head like a Fascist and exclaimed:

“Salut!”

“Whatever did you do that for?” asked Pamela.

Edward glanced at her with his quick impudent smile. He said:

“I’m certain we could produce ectoplasm here.”

“What’s ectoplasm?”

“It’s white. Rather like sago pudding. It usually forms downwards.”

Quite seriously, so that they couldn’t be sure if he were joking or not, he described a series of experiments with an Austrian medium. He seemed to have read a great deal on the subject. Pamela was thrilled.

“I do think this house is weird. One could quite imagine seeing a ghost here.”

They wandered to the window to admire the view. Mrs. Compstall came in, having fetched her husband, who was obviously just out of bed. He repeated that if only they’d known Mr. Thomas was coming, etc., etc. He lingered for a few minutes and then disappeared, evidently feeling that he’d done his duty.

Mary suggested that they should go out into the garden. She had a feeling that she didn’t like being in the house. It was old, nasty, suffocating. She hoped that Anne and Tommy wouldn’t come to feel the same about it.

On the staircase, Edward announced that the little eighteenth-century portrait under the window was obviously a trance-picture.

“You turn that face to the wall some evening when you’re alone in the house,” he said to Mrs. Compstall, “and in half an hour or so you’ll find it’s turned round again.”

Mrs. Compstall looked at him narrowly, scenting a joke.

“I don’t know that I should hardly like to,” she answered at length, “not if Compstall wasn’t here.”

Pamela and Maurice were in giggles over this for some time. Maurice was slightly hysterical with fatigue. He began sparring with Edward, mocking him, until Edward turned on him suddenly and they crashed down the staircase, almost head first, and out into the garden, through the gates, away across the park. Maurice, nearly a head the taller, ran like a greyhound, but Edward overhauled him. The others watched from the window, quite fascinated.

“By Jove!” said Tommy, “he can run.”