"In the days of your youth," she proclaimed, "your line of authorship is crossed by many rejections."
"Oh, I am an author, hein? That's a fine thing in guesses!"
"It is written!" she affirmed, still scrutinising my palm. "Your dramatic lines are—er—countless; some of them are good. I see danger; you should beware of—I cannot distinguish!" she clasped her brow and shivered. "Ah, I have it! You should beware of hackneyed situations."
"So the Drama is 'written,' too, is it?"
"It is written, and I discern that it is already accepted," she said.
"For at the juncture where the Eclatant is eclipsed by the Café du Bel
Avenir, there is a distinct manifestation of cash."
"Marvellous!" I exclaimed. "And will the sybil explain why she surmised that I was a dramatic author?"
"Even so!" she boasted. "You wrote your message to me on an envelope from the Dramatic Authors' Society, What do you think of my palmistry?"
"I cannot say that I think it is your career. You are more likely an author yourself, or an actress, or a journalist. Perhaps you are mademoiselle Girard. Mon Dieu! What a piece of luck for me if I found mademoiselle Girard!"
"And what a piece of luck for her!"
"Why for her?"