"A very strong one of some kind--I know not what," replied the lady. "Hark ye, sirrah! are you a true man, or an impostor?"
"My sublime art, madam, does not permit of my telling an untruth," rejoined Weston. "The moment I did so, I should lose all power and knowledge. Do not think, madam, that the height of science can be obtained by deep study alone. The mind must subject itself to certain rules, fixed and decided, amongst which the telling truth upon all points of art is the great fundamental. I may refuse to answer you, if I will; but, if I do answer, the nicest judging eye must not be able to discover one grain of deceit in all I say."
"Well, then," exclaimed the lady, "tell me under what misfortunes I suffer, if you would have me believe you skilful as you pretend."
"First, madam, let me know your name," said the artful man; "that, at least, I ought to be made acquainted with."
"No, no," answered she to whom he spoke, "that were half the history. My name you shall know, if you satisfy me."
"This is hard," cried Weston, with assumed mortification; "you must not tax science more than it can bear--I will speak as I believe, however; though mind, I tell you beforehand, that I cannot be so sure as if I knew your name, and the hour of your nativity. Madam, will you let me see your hand?--the right hand, if you please; and you, Mrs. Turner, in the meanwhile, ask my boy for my sand-glass and square."
The lady drew the glove from her fair and beautiful hand, and stretched it out for the inspection of the charlatan, who gazed upon the few lines in the soft and glossy palm with an air of apparently deep consideration.
"Ha!" he cried, "I see you are under eighteen years of age."
"A good guess," said the lady. "What more?"
"We will wait a little," answered Weston. "I could say more even now, but I would fain consult the sand first."