“Theo,” said Quimbleton, as he wiped his brow, “do you think, dear, that if I set up the table you could give us a little trance?  Upon my soul, I am nearly done in.”

“Darling Virgil,” said Theodolinda, “I really can’t do it.  You know I’ve given you four trances already this morning, and you have communed with the soul of Wurzburger at least a dozen times.  Then, as you know, I have put Mr. Bleak in touch with a julep six or seven times.  All that takes it out of me dreadfully.  I really must consider my art a bit:  I don’t want to be a mere psychic bartender, a clairvoyant distiller.”

“You are quite right, dear girl,” said Quimbleton remorsefully.  “But I couldn’t help thinking how agreeable a psychical seidel of dark beer would be just now.  You are our little Jeanne Dark, you know,” he added, with an atrocious attempt at pleasantry.

“That’s all very well,” said Bleak (who preferred julep to beer), “but if we don’t look out Miss Chuff will go into a permanent trance.  I’ve noticed it has been harder and harder to bring her back from these states of suspended sobriety.  You know, if we crowd these phantasms of the grape upon her too fast, she might pass over altogether, and stay behind the bar for good.  We are deeply indebted to Miss Chuff for her adorable willingness to act as a kind of bunghole into the spirit world, but we don’t want her to slip through the hole and evaporate.”

“Safety thirst!” cried Quimbleton, raising his loved one to his lips.

“We can’t go on like this indefinitely,” continued Bleak.  “I don’t mind being a mountebank, but mountebanks don’t pay much interest.  I’d rather be a safe deposit somewhere out of Chuff’s reach.  There’s too much drama in this way of living.”

“I can stand the drama as long as I get the drams,” said the unrepentant Quimbleton.

“Well, I won’t stand it!” exclaimed Mrs. Bleak, shrilly.  “Look what your insane schemes have brought us to!  You and my husband seem to find comfort in your psychical toping, but I don’t notice any psychical millinery being draped about for Miss Chuff or myself.  And look at the children!  They’re simply in rags.  If you really loved Miss Chuff I should think you’d be ashamed to use her as a spiritual demijohn!  You’ve alienated her from her father, and reduced my husband from managing editor of a leading paper to managing jew’s-harpist of a gang of psychic bootleggers.”  She burst into angry tears.

Quimbleton groaned, and turned a ghastly fade upon Bleak.

“It’s quite true,” he said.

In the excitement Miss Chuff had turned very pale.

“Virgil,” she said faintly, “I believe I feel a trance coming on.”

“Great grief!” cried the harassed leader.  “Not now, my darling!  I think I see some troops in the distance.  Quick, try to concentrate your mind on lemonade, on buttermilk, on beef tea!”

Happily this crisis passed.  Theodolinda had presence of mind enough to pull out a little photograph of her father from some secret hiding place, and by putting her mind on it shook off the dominion of the other world.