n the green-hung dining-room; and she
revolved for the twentieth time the thoughts that had been
continuously with her since midday, moving before her like a
kaleidoscope, incessantly changing their relations, their shapes, and
their suggestions. These tended to form themselves into two main
alternative classes. Either Mr. Cathcart was a harmless fanatic, or he
was unusually sharp. But these again had almost endless subdivisions,
for at present she had no idea of what was really in his mind--as to
what his hints meant. Either this curious old gentleman with shrewd,
humorous eyes was entirely wrong, and Laurie was just suffering from a
nervous strain, not severe enough to hinder him from reading law in
Mr. Morton's chambers; and this was all the substratum of Mr.
Cathcart's mysteries: or else Mr. Cathcart was right, and Laurie was
in the presence of some danger called insanity which Mr. Cathcart
interpreted in some strange fashion she could not understand. And
beneath all this again moved the further questions as to what
spiritualism really was--what it professed to be, or mere
superstitious nonsense, or something else.

She was amazed that she had not demanded greater explicitness this
morning; but the thing had been so startling, so suggestive at first,
so insignificant in its substance, that her ordinary common sense had
deserted her. The old gentleman had come and gone like a wraith, had
uttered a few inconclusive sentences, and promised to write, had been
disappointed with her at one moment and enthusiastic the next.
Obviously their planes ran neither parallel nor opposing; they cut at
unexpected points; and Maggie had no notion as to the direction in
which his lay. All she saw plainly was that there was some point of
view other than hers.

So, then, she revolved theories, questioned, argued, doubted with
herself. One thing only emerged--the old lady's feverish cold afforded
her exactly the opportunity she wished; she could write to Laurie with
perfect truthfulness that his mother had taken to her bed, and that
she hoped he would come down next week instead of the week after.

After dinner she sat down and wrote it, pausing many times to consider
a phrase.

Then she read a little, and soon after ten went upstairs to bed.

III

It was a little before sunset on that day that Mr. James Morton turned
down on to the Embankment to walk up to the Westminster underground to
take him home. He was a great man on phy