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Gombauld, “You must be our lightning artist,” she said. “‘Your portrait for a shilling in five minutes.’”

“It’s a pity I’m not Ivor,” said Gobauld, with a laugh. “I could throw in a picture of their Auras for an extra sixpence.”

Mary flushed. “Nothing is to be gained,” she said severely, “by speaking with levity of serious subjects. And, after all, whatever your personal views may be, psychical research is a perfectly serious subject.”

“And what about Denis?”

Denis made a deprecating gesture. “I have no accomplishments,” he said. “I’ll just be one of those men who wear a thing in their buttonholes and go about telling people which is the way to tea and not to walk on the grass.”

“No, no,” said Anne. “That won’t do. You must do something more than that.”

“But what? All the good jobs are taken, and I can do nothing but lisp in numbers.”

“Well, then, you must lisp,” concluded Anne. “You must write a poem for the occasion—an ‘Ode on Bank Holiday.’

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