“Oh, dear,” gulped Mrs. Grimes. “You don’t mean to say he will refuse to be President?”
“It’s more likely he’ll be running on the Republican ticket,” said Mr. Gooch, grinning at Mr. Link.
“Sh! How old is little Oliver by this time, Queen?” inquired Baxter. “I mean how far have you got him by now?”
“He is nearing thirty. Rich, respected and admired. He will have many affairs of the heart. I see two dark women and—one, two—yes, three fair women.”
Mrs. Sage sighed. “At last it begins to look like real trouble.”
“That would seem to show that he’s going to be a purty good-looking sort of a feller, wouldn’t it?” said Baxter, proudly.
“He will grow up to be the image of his father, Mister.”
“Now she’s telling you the unpleasant things you were dreading, Oliver,” said Gooch.
The gypsy leaned back in her chair, spreading her hands in a gesture of finality.
“I see no more,” she said. “The light of the star has faded out. So! Are you not pleased?”