“No,” he said in a moment, quietly. “No, I am not dead.”
Eugene came up on the porch and sat down on a limestone base, up— ended. Ben turned, in a moment, and climbed up on the rail, bending forward comfortably upon his knees.
Eugene fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, with fingers that were stiff and trembling. He was not frightened: he was speechless with wonder and strong eagerness, and afraid to betray his thoughts to ridicule. He lighted a cigarette. Presently he said, painfully, hesitantly, in apology:
“Ben, are you a ghost?”
Ben did not mock.
“No,” he said. “I am not a ghost.”
There was silence again, while Eugene sought timorously for words.
“I hope,” he began presently, with a small cracked laugh, “I hope, then, this doesn’t mean that I’m crazy?”
“Why not?” said Ben, with a swift flickering grin. “Of course you’re crazy.”
“Then,” said Eugene slowly, “I’m imagining all this?”
“In heaven’s name!” Ben cried irritably. “How should I know? Imagining all what?”
“What I mean,” said Eugene, “is, are we here talking together, or not?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Ben. “How should I know?”
With a strong rustle of marble and a cold sigh of weariness, the angel nearest Eugene moved her stone foot and lifted her arm to a higher balance. The slender lily stipe shook stiffly in her elegant cold fingers.
“Did you see that?” Eugene cried excitedly.
“Did I see what?” said Ben, annoyed.
“Th-th-that angel there!” Eugene chattered, pointing with a trembling finger. “Did you see it move? It lifted its arm.”
“What of it?” Ben asked irritably. “It has a right to, hasn’t it? You know,” he added with biting sarcasm, “there’s no law against an angel lifting its arm if it wants to.”
“No, I suppose not,” Eugene admitted slowly, after a moment. “Only, I’ve always heard—”
“Ah! Do you believe all you hear, fool?” Ben cried fiercely. “
