And he stepped forward in obedience to Lady Melthorpe’s signal, to be introduced to the “dear” Baroness, whose shrewd little eyes dwelt upon him curiously.
“Do you believe in palmistry?” she asked him, after the ordinary greetings were exchanged.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered politely—“though I am acquainted with the rules of the art as practised in the East, and I know that many odd coincidences do occur. But,—as an example—take my hand—I am sure you can make nothing of it.”
He held out his open palm for her inspection—she bent over it, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. There were none of the usual innumerable little criss-cross lines upon it—nothing, in fact, but two deep dents from left to right, and one well-marked line running from the wrist to the centre.
“It is unnatural!” cried the Baroness in amazement.—“It is a malformation! There is no hand like it!”
“I believe not,” answered El-Râmi composedly.—“As I told you, you can learn nothing from it—and yet my life has not been without its adventures. This hand of mine is my excuse for not accepting palmistry as an absolutely proved science.”
“Must everything be ‘proved’ for you?” asked Irene Vassilius suddenly.
“Assuredly, Madame!”
“Then have you ‘proved’ the elsewhere of which you spoke to me?”
El-Râmi flushed a little,—then paled again.