All of these opportunities I am willing to dispose of at
a reduced rate to anyone still sceptical of the reality
of the spirit world.
V. The Sorrows of a Summer Guest
Let me admit, as I start to write, that the whole thing
is my own fault. I should never have come. I knew better.
I have known better for years. I have known that it is
sheer madness to go and pay visits in other people's
houses.
Yet in a moment of insanity I have let myself in for it
and here I am. There is no hope, no outlet now till the
first of September when my visit is to terminate. Either
that or death. I do not greatly care which.
I write this, where no human eye can see me, down by the
pond--they call it the lake--at the foot of Beverly-Jones's
estate. It is six o'clock in the morning. No one is up.
For a brief hour or so there is peace. But presently Miss
Larkspur--the jolly English girl who arrived last week
--will throw open her casement window and call across
the lawn, "Hullo everybody! What a ripping morning!" And
young Poppleson will call back in a Swiss yodel from
somewhere in the shrubbery, and Beverly-Jones will appear
on the piazza with big towels round his neck and shout,
"Who's coming for an early dip?" And so the day's fun
and jollity--heaven help me--will begin again.
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