Barbara heard Gladys’s high, querulous voice, saying, coquettishly: “I don’t want my fortune told, Harry. I would much rather you told it to me any way.” But Mr. Townsend insisted.
“Fly, girls—do, please! They are coming in!” said Barbara. “No; you can’t get out, but you must stay perfectly still behind this curtain, and not breathe a single word.”
It was almost entirely dark in the gypsy tent, the only light coming from the burning pot of fire on the table. Barbara stooped low, when she opened the door to allow Harry, Gladys and the Countess Bertouche to come in.
“It groweth late,” Bab began, croakingly. “Evil may come. No good fortunes fall between dusk and darkness. Beware!”
Gladys shuddered. “Let’s not go in,” she urged.
But Harry Townsend only laughed. “Don’t let the old hag frighten you,” he retorted, lightly. “Here,” he turned to the gypsy and spoke in a voice no one of the girls had ever heard him use, “here, you old swindler, speak out! What kind of fate do you read for me in the stars?”
Barbara picked up the pack of dirty cards, and began to shuffle them slowly. An idea was revolving in her head. Dared she do it? But Barbara was a girl who was not easily daunted.
