"One question for each girl!" said Dick.
"I know what mine will be!" declared Marjorie, without the least hesitation.
"'Does Princeton miss me?'" teased Ruth.
"Wrong again, Ruth," said Marjorie, shaking her head.
The fortune teller, a real gypsy, arrived in a few moments, and the party adjourned to the dance room to listen. Sitting down upon the floor near the fireplace, she produced a soiled pack of cards; then, addressing the girls one by one, she painted glorious futures for them, with ocean trips, "dark" or "blond" men, letters, and inheritances. It was all good fun, and most of the girls did not take her seriously. Their favorite question was, of course, "Will I get married?" to which the woman invariably answered "Yes"—or, sometimes, "Twice!"
But Marjorie's question was a little different.
"Where is Frieda Hammer?" She asked it seriously, trembling in spite of herself.
The fortune teller half closed her eyes, and there was intense silence for a moment. Then she replied slowly,
"New York!"