I declare that I trembled as if I had a chill. If Mabel had not been by my side, I should have been overcome by the shock. Holding the telegram before Mabel's eyes, I exclaimed in a voice that trembled with conflicting emotions of horror and anger: "This is carrying a practical joke too far. Here, some brainless wretch telegraphs me in your mother's name that you are dead."
Careless of the almost frenzied energy with which I spoke, I looked around upon the faces of my fellow -guests as one does who is confident of sympathy. To my amazement, in response to my speech, there arose a cackle of laughter which was presently transformed into a general ripple of mirth. And such mirth! The like of it I had never heard before, and, please heaven, I hope I never may again. It was not like real laughter, but rather the empty and strident cachinnation of beings lost to the feelings of humanity.
Pale with anger, I rose to my feet and, steadying myself with one hand on the back of my chair, exclaimed:
"What does this mean?"
Dead silence was the only response. Conversation had ceased, but I felt that every eye was fixed upon me. Aghast, I looked at Mabel, but she did not return my gaze. At length, the old woman with the camellias in her hair, who sat opposite, addressed me, saying:
"Why do you think that Mabel is not dead?"
"Good God!" I replied. "Here she is. Don't you see her? What do these people mean?"
The old woman grinned and waved her feather fan at me, playfully, saying:
"Ask her if she isn't dead?"
I turned to Mabel in wonderment, but she only shook her head sadly.
"Why, of course she's dead!" said the old woman. "Don't you know that all of us here are dead?"
"Indeed, yes; we are all dead," cried the other guests in general chorus.
"This is getting beyond patience!" I exclaimed. "You, too, are pleased to joke with me, but I tell you frankly that I fail to
