“That’s safe,” scoffed Mrs. Brande from the background; “teething and measles—I could have told that!”
“You have really a splendid hand,” pursued Lalla. “I should like to make a cast of it.”
“She would like to have it altogether,” grunted Colonel Sladen to his immediate neighbours.
“Now, Captain Waring, for you?” cried the oracle, invitingly.
Captain Waring, smiling, prosperous, perfectly ready to be amused, stepped forward with alacrity.
“A fine broad palm! A magnificent line of fate; great riches are strongly marked—rather susceptible to our sex; a wonderful power of drawing people to you; you will not marry for some years.” As he stood aside, Lalla said, “Last, but not least, Miss Gordon. Oh, come along, Miss Gordon”—beckoning with an imperious finger.
“Thank you, I would rather not be done,” she answered stiffly.
“What?” inquired young Jervis, in an undertone. “Not be butchered to make a station’s holiday?”
“Oh, nonsense!” persisted Lalla rather shrilly. “Your aunt has been ‘done,’ as you call it, and I am anxious to see what type your hand belongs to—it’s sure to be artistic.”
“There is a nice little bait for you,” whispered Jervis. “Surely you cannot refuse that.”