"What, for instance?"
"That line—in your hand."
"I thought you said this was only fun; that you did not believe in it?" Raymond frowned as he saw his next course advancing toward him.
"There are exceptions," and Joan helped him arrange his dishes.
"Some day, if you are interested, come and I'll tell you more about that line in your hand." She rose with quiet grace and moved away.
"Oh! I say—" Raymond followed her with his eyes—"why not to-day?"
"There are others," Joan tossed back and was gone.
That night she went to Patricia Leigh's. Patricia had had a busy and prosperous day. She had written some verses that she felt were good—they had a tang that always gave Patricia the belief in their quality; she had sold two other small things. She was, therefore, at her flightiest, and greeted Joan with delight.
"I'm so glad Syl is not tagging on, Joan," she said. "Syl is the best they make, but she does somehow get under the skin and make people feel themselves 'seconds'."
Joan sank into a chair.