We had been married for many years, and
we had grown very close. Of what importance was the Wells case, or
what mattered it that there were strange new-old laws in the
universe, so long as we kept together?
That my wife had felt a certain bitterness toward Miss Jeremy, a
jealousy of her powers, even of her youth, had not dawned on me.
But when, in her new humility, she suggested that we call on the
medium that afternoon. I realized that, in her own way, she was
making a sort of atonement.
Miss Jeremy lived with an elderly spinster cousin, a short distance
out of town. It was a grim house, coldly and rigidly Calvinistic.
It gave an unpleasant impression at the start, and our comfort was
not increased by the discovery, made early in the call, that the
cousin regarded the Neighborhood Club and its members with suspicion.
The cousin--her name was Connell--was small and sharp, and she
entered the room followed by a train of cats. All the time she was
frigidly greeting us, cats were coming in at the door, one after
the other. It fascinated me. I do not like cats. I am, as a matter
of confession, afraid of cats. They affect me as do snakes. They
trailed in in a seemingly endless procession, and one of them took
a fancy to me, and leaped from behind on to my shoulder.
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