“What for?”
“I can tell fortunes. I’m extremely good at it,” he boasted. “I’ll tell you yours.”
“Oh, very well,” she assented, sitting down again: and guilelessly she pulled off her glove.
He took her hand, a beautifully slender, nervous hand, warm and soft, with rosy, tapering fingers.
“Oho! you are an old maid after all,” he cried. “There’s no wedding ring.”
“You villain!” she gasped, snatching the hand away.
“I promised to tell your fortune. Haven’t I told it correctly?”
“You needn’t rub it in, though. Eccentric old maids don’t like to be reminded of their condition.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Why do you ask?”