“Yes—humph,” critically examining Miss Ryder’s pink palm. “Your head is entirely governed by your heart, and oh dear me! there is a dreadful cross on the heart line, a broken marriage. No,” turning the hand sideways, “I see no marriage line on your hand, but a great many small worries; truthfulness is not an attribute—no; you will live long, and enjoy fairly good health.”
Miss Ryder shrank back, with a distinctly sobered countenance, and in answer to the fortune-teller’s desire, Mark Jervis was pushed forward. He tendered his hand reluctantly, and only for the Englishman’s usual hatred of a fuss, would have withheld it altogether. Miss Paske disliked Mr. Jervis with his cool, ambiguous manner—he was a mere hanger on, scarcely worth powder and shot, but he was a friend of Honor Gordon’s, and she would make him ridiculous for her benefit!
“Oh, what a hand!” she exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. “A fair enough head line, a great capacity for holding your tongue, especially on any subject concerning yourself. You do not think it necessary to tell the whole truth on all occasions.” This was a palpable home-thrust, for in the face of half Shirani, Mark Jervis coloured visibly. “Secret, clear-headed, with great self-command. Yes; you would make a fine conspirator, and I think you are a bit of an impostor.” Again the colour deepened in the subject’s tan cheek. “Line of heart nil. Fate much broken, I see—the mark of some kind of imprisonment; a life solitary and apart,” and holding the palm nearer to her eyes, “there is a great and unexpected change of fortune in store for you, which entails trouble. And there is the mark—of a violent death, or you will be the cause of another person’s death—the lines,” dropping his hand with a hopeless gesture, “are really too faint to read anything more with success.”
“Thanks awfully; it is very good of you to let me down so easily. I know you see a halter in my hand, but have wished to spare my feelings.”
Lalla looked at him indignantly—he was laughing. How dared he laugh at her?
“Now, Sir Gloster, it is your turn”—beckoning to him graciously.
Sir Gloster thrust out a very large, soft, white hand, and said, “This is worse than the stool of repentance. If you discover anything very bad, I implore you to whisper it in my ear, my dear Miss Paske.”
“Now, this really is a hand!” she exclaimed, looking round as if she was surprised to find that it was not a foot! “You have a splendid head line.”
Sir Gloster coloured consciously, and glanced surreptitiously at Honor, as much as to say, “I hope you heard that!”
“Quite a commanding intellect—you could do almost anything you chose—and are likely to be successful in your aims. A strong will; a magnificent line of fate—yes, yes, yes, all the good things! You will marry a fair wife; you will meet her in India—in fact, you have met her already. You had some illnesses before you were ten——”