The Ghost and Mrs. Muir Page #7

Oh, no!

Poor Edwin.

He never did anything.

I'm afraid he wasn't even

a very good architect.

He couldn't have designed

a house like this.

Who did?

I did.

It reminds me of something--

An old song, or--or a poem.

""Magic casements,

opening on the foam

of perilous seas,

in faery lands forlorn.''

That's Keats, isn't it?

The nightingale.

Strange to find a sea captain

quoting Keats.

Oh, life's slow at sea.

Plenty of time for reading

in the off watches.

How romantic.

Reading lyric poetry

up in the crow's-nest

with the sheets

bellying in the wind.

Sails, blast it all, madam!

A sheet's a line, a rope.

Ropes can't belly.

I don't know anything

about the sea

except that it is romantic.

That's what

all landsmen think.

Seamen know better.

Then why do they

go to sea?

Because they haven't

the sense to stay ashore.

Heaven help

the ordinary seaman.

Were you ever one?

For several years,

while I learnt me trade.

It's hard to imagine you

being an ordinary anything.

You got callers.

Oh, dear!

Whatever can they want?

Who is it?

My blasted in-laws!

But she's resting, ma'am.

Then we'll go up.

Quick! Hide or--or go away

or decompose.

Dematerialize, madam.

Whatever it is,

do it quickly.

No fear.

They can't see me or hear me

unless I choose

that they should.

Oh, then please don't choose.

I'll get rid of them.

Why don't you let me?

I've had plenty of practice.

Say the word,

and I'll keelhaul them.

No. You're not to do anything!

Well, Lucy.

Talking to herself.

Oh, my poor Lucy.

You look so pale.

Well!

What an ugly room!

Oh, it isn't really.

Whatever do you want

with that telescope?

I--I like to look at the stars.

You never liked

to look at the stars

when you lived with us.

Sit down, Mother.

And what a hideous painting.

Anyone with a face

like yours, madam...

should steer clear of

expressing such opinions.

Why on earth don't you

take it down?

Because I like it, Eva.

I'm--I'm very fond of it,

really I am.

Ha ha ha! Liar.

Of course.

If you want a portrait

of a strange man

in your room...

well, that's up to you.

I'm sure you didn't come here

merely to criticize the decorations.

No, we did not.

Oh, poor Lucy,

we've such bad news for you.

I suppose it's all for the best,

everything considered.

Don't you, Eva?

And in my opinion,

we're just in time.

So perhaps our bad news

is good news after all...

and now we can all

go home and live together

and forget all this nonsense

about living alone.

What news is this?

Your gold mine, Lucy.

It's petered out.

They've stopped

paying dividends.

It was in The Times

this morning.

Oh.

Oh.

Avast now.

Don't make a scene

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