brown, with the texture of parchment; his hands trembled so that he kept them against some
part of his body, and would not attempt to write in the presence of anyone. He had grown
much thinner, which accentuated the prominence of his eagle's beak. As usual, Zaharoff kept
himself out of all sorts of trouble, and took no sides in this family row; his interest was in
getting messages from the duquesa, and he would sit tirelessly as long as any medium would
stand it. But he still hadn't made up his mind entirely; he revealed that to Lanny, not by a
direct statement, but by the trend of the questions he kept putting to the younger man.
It was permissible for Lanny to mention that a young friend of his had not been heard from
in Germany; whereupon this hiveful of mediums set to work secreting wax and honey for him.
Most of it appeared to be synthetic; Lanny became sure that some clever trickster had guessed
that the missing person was a relative of Johannes Robin, himself recently named in the
newspapers as missing, and now suddenly arriving with the Budds. Since Hansi had been
interviewed in Paris on the subject, it couldn't be he who was lost. Since Freddi had been in
London and was known to all friends of the Budds, it really wasn't much of a detective job to get
his name. Every issue of the
camps and the mistreatment of the Jews; so the spirits began pouring out details—the only
trouble being that no two of them agreed on anything of importance.
There was only one medium whom Lanny knew and trusted, and that was Madame; but
her control, Tecumseh, was still cross with Lanny and wouldn't take any trouble for him. In
New York the control had been willing to repeat French sentences, syllable by syllable, but now
he refused to do the same for German. He said it was too ugly a language, with sounds that no
civilized tongue could get round—this from a chieftain of the Iroquois Indians! Tecumseh said
that Freddi was not in the spirit world, and that the spirits who tried to talk about Freddi
didn't seem to know anything definite. Tecumseh got so that he would say to a sitter: "Are you
going to ask me about that Jewish fellow?" It threatened to ruin Madame's mediumship and
her career.
VIII
Marceline had been invited to spend the summer with the Pomeroy-Nielsons, as a means of
making up for the yacht cruise which had been rudely snatched away. Marceline and Alfy,
having the same sixteen years, were shooting up tall and what the English call "leggy." It is the
age of self-consciousness and restlessness; many things were changing suddenly and confusing
their young minds. With other friends of the same age they played with delicate intimations of
love; they felt attraction, then shied away, took offense and made up, talked a great deal about
themselves and one another, and in various ways prepared for the serious business of matrimony.
Marceline exercised her impulse to tease Alfy by being interested in other boys. She had a
right to, hadn't she? Did she have to fall in love the way her family expected? What sort of old-
fashioned idea was that? The future baronet was proud, offended, angry, then exalted.
Irma and Lanny motored up for a week end, to see how things were going. A lovely old place
by the Thames, so restful after the storms and strains of the great world; especially after
Berlin, with its enormous and for the most part tasteless public buildings, its statues, crude and
cruel, celebrating military glory. Here at The Reaches everything was peaceful; the little old
river seemed tame and friendly, safe to go punting on, just right for lovers and poets.
It had been here a long time and would stay while generation after generation of baronets
appeared, grew up and studied at the proper schools, wore the proper comfortable clothes,
established "little theaters," and wrote articles for newspapers and weeklies proving that the
country was going to pot.
Here was Sir Alfred, tall, somewhat eccentric, but genial and full of humor; his hair had
turned gray while his mustache remained black. Excessive taxes had completely ruined him, he
declared, but he was absorbed in collecting records of twentieth-century British drama for a
museum which some rich friend was financing. Here was his kind and gentle wife, the most
attentive of hostesses. Here was Nina, helping to run this rambling old brick house, built onto
indefinitely by one generation after another and having so many fireplaces and chimneys that in
wintertime it would take one maid most of her time carrying coal-scuttles. Here were three very
lovely children, eager and happy, but taught to be quieter than any you would find in America.
Finally here was the lame ex-aviator whom Lanny considered the wisest man he knew, the
only one with whom he could exchange ideas with complete understanding. Rick was one who
