"I do hope he hasn't a moustache," murmured the listener. "Can you see his name?"
"No."
"And you can't tell where I'll met him, or how, or when?"
"The cards don't say, but it will be soon, and there's the money card, so he'll be rich. You'll both fall in love the moment you meet. He's your affinity."
Cynthia went out of the room in a sentimental trance. At last her dream was coming true. Not a tinge of skepticism lurked in her mind. Hadn't Madame told her all about her innermost feelings, and about her sister Molly having been ill with diphtheria, and about her father having made a big fortune out of pine lands, and about her having refused little Billy Bennington, whose father was a millionaire and had a huge house on Fifth Avenue? No; there was no room for doubt.
She laughed off the questions of the girls. What she had learned was too sacred to be told to anyone except Amelia and Laura May, and possibly Blanche White.
After the lights were out that night she told them, and their sympathy and excitement were all she could have desired.
"Goodness, but I just envy you, Cynthia Weston," said Amelia in a stage whisper, which was a concession to the faculty's unreasonable prejudice against visiting after "lights-out" bell. "It's the most exciting thing I ever heard. He may pop out at you anywhere. She said it would be soon, didn't she?"
"Very soon." There was a soulful pride in Cynthia's manner, a tremulous thrill in her voice.
"Well, we'll all watch out for him. I'm almost as interested as if I were it," said Laura May generously; and Cynthia crept cautiously to her own room, to dream of a beautiful being with raven hair and piercing black eyes—and no moustache.