w their chairs closer.

She took the hand of a young girl whose features were alive with an
invincible gay selfishness. Madame Zanidov hardly glanced at the
other's palm. Closing her almond-shaped eyes, contracting her brows,
she let an unnatural fixed smile settle upon her lips. And now,
indeed, it seemed to them that some of the mystery of Asia had informed
her rigid person, or was escaping, together with a thick, sweet scent,
from the folds of her metallic and barbarically painted gown.

"Do not be afraid," she said, without opening her eyes.

Even the girl whose hand she held had ceased to smile.

There was a long silence, pervaded by the faint harmonies of _Vienna
Carnival_.

"For you have nothing to fear," the Russian quietly announced at last.
"All that you must pass through--how much confusion and twitter I am
conscious of!--will hardly touch you. Few heartaches, few tears. Some
day you will find yourself in a tawny land of harsh outlines: it is
probably southern Spain. There you will meet a man as lithe as a
panther, his shoulders covered with gold, driving his sword through the
neck of a bull. You are speaking to him at night. He kisses your
hands. But that, too, will soon end in laughter. You will marry three
times, but never be a widow."

She opened her eyes, to gaze thoughtfully at Lilla.

They asked Madame Zanidov if she really saw those things. She replied
that her perceptions were at times exactly like pictures. For example,
she had seen the matador's lunge, as a splendid plasticity of violet
silk and tinsel, and then the bright blood gushing from the neck of the
bull.

In subdued voices they began to discuss "the possession of human beings
by occult forces." One spoke of astounding passages set down through
automatic writing. Another mentioned psychometry. "But psychometrists
got impressions only from the past!" Whereupon they stared at the
Russian. Their eyes, which had been lightly touched with a black
pencil, were no longer sophisticated. Their rouged lips were relaxed
by that superstitious awe which, even in cultivated societies, is ever
waiting to invade the feminine mind.

Madame Zanidov was still looking at Lilla.

"Yes," some one proposed. "Try her."

"She doesn't wish it," Madame Zanidov remarked.

But after a moment of hesitation Lilla held out her hand. Once more
everybody became silent and intent. The music of Schumann softly
intruded into this stillness.