A gradual silence fell among the jabbering, gesticulating crowd. All eyes were directed alternately towards the glass on the mantel-piece and Mademoiselle Brinskaïa.
“It is settled,” Dolkovitch declared.
The Polish old maid rose solemnly, marched towards the fireplace, and inspected the glass curiously, noting the shape which the egg-white had taken.
“It is a porte-cochère,” she announced. “That means riches.”
There was a buzz of satisfaction and a little hand-clapping, the blinking octogenarian who had broken the egg being cheerfully complimented on his prospects.
The sibyl did not return to Matthew Strang’s side, and the vacant niche was taken by a stout, elderly, motherly lady, who was introduced to him as the Countess de Villiers, and who, regardless of the fact that his eyes perpetually wandered towards the door, published her autobiography to him, from her babyhood in Brazil to her maturity in Gibraltar. There could be no close to her story, she volunteered, for she could never die.
This drew Matthew’s attention even from the door.
“Do you mean metaphorically?” he said.
“No, literally. You could not kill me if you tried.”
“What! Not with a knife?”