The place had repelled Ethel; the personality of the medium had offended her, even at the visit which she had made during the afternoon. What an idea, Ethel thought, as she sought out the house from the business places of hairdressers and chiropodists, to suppose that her father would come to speak to her in such a house as he would never have appointed for a meeting place in his life. And how could it be that such an individual as Mrs. Davol was necessary for so sacred and solemn a function as communion between the soul of father and daughter?
It was not that Mrs. Davol was a common and obviously uncultured woman. Ethel had many acquaintances among the so-called common and little educated whom she respected and liked; nor was it that Mrs. Davol was actually unpleasant. She simply was an ordinary, middle-aged woman, a little too fat—an indolent looking person, except for her eyes, which were brown and sparkling and by their activity emphasized the sloth of Mrs. Davol's round body. If Ethel had found her employed in the bakery at the corner or at the shampoo parlors, she would have accepted her without particular consideration as agreeable enough in her place; but as an ambassador to the dead,—well, Ethel had imagined that such duty required quite a different sort of a person.
Yet Ethel's inquiries had brought her assurance that Mrs. Davol was very successful; and the medium herself was calmly confident and matter-of-fact about her abilities.
"I don't guarantee results, dearie," she said. "But I may say I near always get them. Not right off, of course; sometimes it takes time. Eva's a good girl; but she has her ways; and likely she has troubles of
