"I don't see why you should call it superstitious to believe in facts," she said. "My cousin's husband's sister brought some may into her house last year, and her uncle died within the month."
"My husband's uncle's sister's niece
Was saved from them by the police.
She says so, so I know it's true—"
I had got thus far in my quotation when she interrupted me.
"Oh, well, if you're going to sneer!" she said, and added that it was getting late, and that she must go home.
"Not yet," I pleaded. "See how pretty everything is. The sky all pink, and the red sunset between the yews, and that good little moon. And how black the shadows are under the buttresses. Don't go home—already they will have lighted the yellow shaded lamps in your drawing-room. Your sister will be sitting down to the piano. Your mother is trying to match her silks. Your brother has got out the chess board. Someone is drawing the curtains. The day is over for them, but for us, here, there is a little bit of it left."
