“So that’s what you palm-cranks call a mixed type!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus. “I call her variegated.”
“Oh, of course she is bound to be contradictory, in appearance at least, at odd times,” said the Doctor. “Moody as a mystic, dogmatic as a sectarian theologian, and will take risks like a Wall Street speculator. She is made that way, she is constitutionally so. Oh, yes, she is a bundle of mystical impressions held together by very clear ideas of what she wants, also has fearless business methods to obtain it. The seeming contradiction is more apparent than real, however.”
“How about those rings?” quizzed Adele, when Paul’s back was turned.
“Well, only one thing worth remembering. She wears her largest upon her forefinger, the most conspicuous position possible, a sure sign of—but let that pass.”
“No, Doctor! no passing allowed in this game—just tell me, but please don’t tell Paul, or I shall never hear the end, no matter what it is;” and she put her arm in the Doctor’s, drawing him off for a deck promenade.
“Well, my dear, if you must know, the woman can’t help advertising herself,—a most unrefined quality in woman, to my notion. Men, you know, no matter how much they may do it themselves, generally detest that sort of thing in women. That’s one way in which her feminine instinct for appreciation takes a somewhat masculine form in action. I could only find it out surely by conversation with her. Now I expect to hear of her some day as President of the International Impressionists’ Mental-Mystic Board of Trade. She will make a good thing of it and possibly then disappear, mystically.”
Adele shuddered. The Doctor felt the motion on his arm. Evidently that sort of talk was antipathetic to Adele.
After a little while she asked quietly:
“Does she presume to practice when travelling?”
“I should not be surprised if she were at it now. She told me there was a patient on board whom she knew she could cure, whether he had faith or not.” Adele twitched again.