"Not a bit," agreed Eleanor, crumpling up her fortune nervously.
"And now," said Dora, "we'll all read them out loud and see how they fit. I put them around without looking at them, and I didn't know where any of you were going to sit."
"I guess mine fits pretty well," said the giggling cousin, whose fortune had a man in it.
"Then why don't you begin?" suggested Betty, and the cousin began with avidity. Dora had absolutely no literary ability; the spontaneous gaiety that bubbled up in all that she said and did was entirely lacking in the stiff, sentimental little character-sketch, but it pleased its reader, and Betty and Eleanor joined in declaring it very interesting.
"Now, Eleanor," said Betty, "you come next."
Eleanor shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I tore mine up before I knew we were to read them." She held up the crumpled ball of paper.
"Oh, you can smooth that out," said Betty, noticing Dora's disappointment. "Here, give it to me."
Eleanor surrendered the paper in silence, and without glancing at the contents Betty smoothed it out and passed it back.
"Now, Eleanor."
Eleanor looked around the table. Everybody was waiting. There was no escape. Resolutely she pulled herself together and plunged in.