That night Mrs. Mallet surpassed herself by her rendering of a menu, especially composed by Atherley for the delectation of their guest.  Their pains were not wasted.  The Canon’s commendation of each course—­and we talked of little else, I remember, from soup to dessert—­was as discriminating as it was warm.

“I am glad you approve of our cook, Uncle,” said Lady Atherley in the drawing-room afterwards, “for she is only a stop-gap.  Our own cook left us quite suddenly the other day, and we had such difficulty in finding this one to take her place.  No one can imagine how inconvenient it is to have a haunted house.”

“My dear Jane, you don’t mean to tell me you are afraid of ghosts?”

“Oh no, Uncle.”

“And I am sure your husband is not?”

“No; but unfortunately cooks are.”

“Eh! what?”

Then Lady Atherley willingly repeated the story of her troubles.

“Preposterous! perfectly preposterous!” cried the Canon.  “The Education Act in operation for all these years, and our lower orders still believe in bogies and hobgoblins!  And yet it is hardly to be wondered at; their social superiors are not much wiser.  The nonsense which is talked in society at present is perfectly incredible.  Persons who are supposed to be in their right mind gravely relate to me such incidents that I could imagine myself transported to the Middle Ages.  I hear of miraculous cures, of spirits summoned from the dead, of men and women floating in the air; and as to diabolic possession, it seems to have become as common as colds in the head.”

He had risen, and now addressed us from the hearthrug.

“Then Mrs. Molyneux and others come and tell me about personal friends of their own who can foretell everything that is going to happen; who can read your inmost thoughts; who can compel others to do this and to do that, whether they like it or no; who, being themselves in one quarter of the globe, constantly appear to their acquaintances in another.  ‘What!’ I say.  ’They can be in two places at once, then!  Certainly no conjurer can equal that!’”

“And what do they say to that?” asked Atherley.

“Oh, they assure me the extraordinary beings who perform these marvels are not impostors, but very superior and religious characters.  ’If they are not impostors,’ I say, ’then their right place is the lunatic asylum.’  ’Oh but, Canon Vernade, you don’t understand; it is only our Western ignorance which makes such things seem astonishing!  Far more marvellous things are going on, and have been going on for centuries, in the East; for instance, in the Brotherhoods of—­I forget—­some unpronounceable name.’  ‘And how do you know they have?’ I ask.  ’Oh, by their traditions, which have been handed on for generations.’  ’That is very reliable information indeed,’ I say.  ’Pray, have you ever played a game of Russian scandal?’ ’Well; but, then, there are the sacred books.  There can be no mistake about them, for they have been translated by learned European professors, who say the religious sentiments are perfectly beautiful.’  ‘Very possibly,’ I say.  ’But it does not follow that the historical statements are correct.’”