“It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked.  Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife.”

“Well, I quite admit it,” said the Ghost, petulantly, “but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one else.”

“It is very wrong to kill any one,” said Virginia, who at times had a sweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.

“Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics!  My wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery.  Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table?  However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I don’t think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.”

“Starve you to death?  Oh, Mr. Ghost—­I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?  I have a sandwich in my case.  Would you like it?”

“No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family.”

“Stop!” cried Virginia, stamping her foot, “it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library.  First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint.  I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?”

“Well, really,” said the Ghost, rather meekly, “what was I to do?  It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints.  As for colour, that is always a matter of taste:  the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don’t care for things of this kind.”

“You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind.  My father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats.  Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success.  I know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost.”

“I don’t think I should like America.”

“I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,” said Virginia, satirically.

“No ruins! no curiosities!” answered the Ghost; “you have your navy and your manners.”