“I carried some of the drinks up this confounded hill,” submitted Nick. “And damned heavy they were, too! I can’t think”—plaintively—“why people should be so thirsty at a picnic. I’m sure Baines has shoved in enough liquid refreshment to float a ship.”
“Praise be!” interpolated Blaise piously.
“Oh, we’ve done our share,” supplemented Claire. “And now we’re going to the gipsy who lives here to have our fortunes told.”
“Before lunch,” subjoined Nick, “so that in case they’re depressingly bad you can stay us with flagons afterwards.”
Jean sat up suddenly, her face alight with interest “Do you mean that there is a real gipsy who tells real fortunes?” she demanded.
“Yes—quite real. She’s supposed to be extraordinarily good,” replied Nick. “She is a lady of property, too, since she has acquired a few square yards of the Moor from the Duchy and built herself a little shanty there. She rejoices in the name of Keturah Stanley.”
“I should like to have my fortune told,” murmured Jean meditatively.
“I’ll take you,” volunteered Blaise.
There was a suddenly alert look in his face, as though he, too, would like to hear Jean’s fortune told.
“We’ll all go, then,” said Claire. “You must let Keturah tell yours as well, Blaise.”