"What?"
"Your mother was charming. If your father really loved her--"
"He did! I'm sure of that, at first, but these 'ghosts' destroyed his
home. My mother confessed to me that they tormented my father for his
unbelief, and he had to go."
"They are together now, and he believes."
Victor fixed a penetrating look upon her. "Do you really believe that
the dead speak to us?"
"I see no reason why they shouldn't--if they want to. How else can you
explain these Voices?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid these modern Italian scientists are
right. The Voices were only 'parasitic personalities,' nothing else. But
let's not talk of them. I'm tired of the 'ghost-room'--all my life I've
had it--and now I'm going to forget it if I can."
"Hush! Your mother may hear you and grieve."
"If she can hear me she will understand my feeling. I like the world as
it is--I don't want the supernatural thrust into it."
"I think you're wrong," she said, firmly. "The larger view is that of
the scientist who recognizes nothing supernatural in the universe. I
would not part with what your mother gave me for huge sums. I've had
wonderful, thrilling experiences. Remember Altair!"
Altair! Yes, he remembered her, and remembering her he recalled the
graceful figure at his bedside and the touch of the faintly clinging
lips. That mystery remained the most inexplicable of them all.
While thus he sat, dream-filled and rapt, the girl studied him, and her
face changed. "You believe in Altair. What's more, you love her, and I
can't blame you for it. She is more beautiful than angels. You will not
forsake the 'ghost-room' so long as you have a hope that she may
return."
"You are mistaken," he protested. "Altair is only a dream. I worship her
as a figure in a vision. Do you know what I think she was?" Her look
questioned, and he went on. "For days I have pondered on her face and
figure, in the light of modern science, and I am convinced that she was
nothing but a union of my mother's astral self and you."