The fortune-teller looked very minutely at both hands and then declared very decidedly,—
“No. There is not the slightest indication of any gift that way—not in the slightest.”
There was a short silence, during which Deborah had the most curious feeling of baffled anger she had ever felt in her life.
“I told you so,” said a voice in her ear far plainer than any human voice. “How many times do you want telling? You may be quite sure if this woman saw the least signs of anything that way she would tell you at once.”
By this time the fortune-teller had begun to speak again.
“You have a gift though, and that is for acting. You should go on the stage. You would make an excellent actress.”
Deborah laughed, and she might be excused the rudeness of it: a more unlikely person for an actress was never born.
It was she who had always been told to sit down in college when she got up to recite, and who had invariably been placed in the lowest class for reading. Moreover, she was short and insignificant in appearance, and by no means understood the art of dressing to advantage. Besides, another word for being an actress, in Deborah’s mind, was being “fast,” and she knew she was very far from being that. Again, she was not fond of actresses nor acting, though that was probably due to ignorance. There were only three of the few she had seen whom she had ever really liked, and those were Ellen Terry, Winifred Emery, and Annie Hughes. Yes, and one other—Amy Roselle; but she was dead.
Ellen Terry had entranced her. She had only seen her once, but that once to her had been a perfect dream. She watched her almost with the absorbed interest she gave to the people in her other world, and when the play was over had felt an intense longing to go and put her arms round her neck and kiss her.
To return to the fortune-teller.