repeated private trances of their own that they were able to keep
up their morale.

Reaching a bend in the way, where a grove of trees cast a grateful
shade, the Decanterbury Pilgrims halted to rest. Quimbleton helped
Theodolinda down from her horse, and they all sat sadly by the
roadside.

"Theo," said Quimbleton, as he wiped his brow, "do you think,
dear, that if I set up the table you could give us a little
trance? Upon my soul, I am nearly done in."

"Darling Virgil," said Theodolinda, "I really can't do it. You
know I've given you four trances already this morning, and you
have communed with the soul of Wurzburger at least a dozen times.
Then, as you know, I have put Mr. Bleak in touch with a julep six
or seven times. All that takes it out of me dreadfully. I really
must consider my art a bit: I don't want to be a mere psychic
bartender, a clairvoyant distiller."

"You are quite right, dear girl," said Quimbleton remorsefully.
"But I couldn't help thinking how agreeable a psychical seidel of
dark beer would be just now. You are our little Jeanne Dark, you
know," he added, with an atrocious attempt at pleasantry.

"That's all very well," said Bleak (who preferred julep to beer),
"but if we don't look out Miss Chuff will go into a permanent
trance. I've noticed it has been harder and harder to bring her
back from these states of suspended sobriety. You know, if we
crowd these phantasms of the grape upon her too fast, she might