ven a show of interest in the result of the game.

At last someone introduced the subject of fortune-telling. Instantly
there was a revival of interest. Everybody had some scrap of experience
to contribute, or some marvellous story to relate. Only Miss Latouche
remained silent.

"What a pity none of us can tell fortunes!" cried Lily Wallace, eagerly.
"Won't anybody try? It's such fun, almost as amusing as turning tables,
and it often comes true in the most wonderful way!"

"Ah, it does indeed!" sighed Mr. Tucker, with a countenance of
preternatural gravity. "A poor fellow I know was told that he would
marry and then die. Well, it's all coming true!"

"Indeed! Really! How very shocking!"

"Yes, indeed! Poor chap! He married last year and now he has nothing but
death before him!"

"How awfully sad!" exclaimed Lily, sympathetically. "Why, you are
smiling! Oh, you bad man. I do believe you were only laughing at me
after all! Now, Irene, will you please tell Mr. Tucker's fortune, and
show him that it is no joking matter? I am sure you know the way,
because I have seen a mysterious book about palmistry in your room. Now
do, there's a dear girl."

After a little more pressing, Miss Latouche acceded to the general
request that she would show her skill. Several people pressed forward at
once to have their fortunes told, the men being quite as eager as the
girls, although they affected to laugh at the whole affair. I watched
the exhibition with some interest. Surely here would be a fair field for
the exercise of that wonderful dramatic power which I knew Miss Latouche
held in reserve. Well, I was disappointed. She examined the hands
submitted to her notice, and interpreted the lines with an amount of
conscientious commonplaceness for which I should never have given her
credit. The majority of the fortunes were composed of the conventional
mixture of illnesses and love affairs which is the stock-in-trade of
drawing-room magicians. I glanced at her face. Not a trace of enthusiasm
was visible. She was telling fortunes as mechanically as a cottager
knits stockings.

"Now we have all been done except Mr. Carew! It's his turn!" cried Lily,
who was enjoying the whole thing immensely. "He must have his fortune
told! You will do him next, won't you, Irene?"

"Never!"

"Oh, why not? Are you tired? What a pity!"

Miss Latouche took not the slightest notice of the chorus of
protestations. She merely turned away with such an air