At the table, a séance— Eyes are closed, hands clasp other hands. Jewels on wealthy fingers generate prisms by candlelight.
The medium moans, calling Fred, lost at sea a year ago. behind her rolled-back eyes she thinks of money to be made, ignores tears of Fred's aging wife who cannot find his will, is lonely and troubled.
Lightning cracks! thunder rolls! a large conch shell appears, hovering. The medium shrieks. A sign! She listens at its mouth. It is only a spirit trying to deceive.
Angry at the interruption, she intones, "Hear me," her turban knocked askew by those whose fear have made them bolt. Fred does hear--a sigh upon the wind, but then he returns to his balding, pot-bellied life among the tall, blonde babes who romp on the beaches of St. Criox.