“‘Sale of Lord Lysart’s wines——‘”
“Capital!” cried Saville: “that’s news—that’s interesting!”
Fanny’s pretty hands returned to their knitting. When the wines had been discussed, the following paragraph was chanced upon:—
“There is a foolish story going the round of the papers about Lord Grey and his vision;—the vision is only in the silly heads of the inventors of the story, and the ghost is, we suppose, the apparition of Old Sarum. By the way, there is a celebrated fortune-teller, or prophetess, now in London, making much noise. We conclude the discomfited Tories will next publish her oracular discourses. She is just arrived in time to predict the passing of the Reform Bill, without any fear of being proved an impostor.”
“Ah, by the by,” said Saville, “I hear wonders of this sorceress. She dreams and divines with the most singular accuracy; and all the old women of both sexes flock to her in hackney-coaches, making fools of themselves to-day in order to be wise to-morrow. Have you seen her, Fanny?”
“Yes,” replied the actress, very gravely; “and, in sober earnest, she has startled me. Her countenance is so striking, her eyes so wild, and in her conversation there is so much enthusiasm, that she carries you away in spite of yourself. Do you believe in astrology, Percy?”
“I almost did once,” said Godolphin, with a half sigh; “but does this female seer profess to choose astrology in preference to cards? The last is the more convenient way of tricking the public.”
“Oh, but this is no vulgar fortune-teller, I assure you,” cried Fanny, quite eagerly: “she dwells much on magnetism; insists on the effect of your own imagination; discards all outward quackeries; and, in short, has either discovered a new way of learning the future, or revived some forgotten trick of deluding the public. Come and see her some day, Godolphin.”
“No, I don’t like that kind of imposture,” said Godolphin, quickly, and turning away, he sank into a silent and gloomy reverie.