"Sometimes, I fancy, but very imperfectly," she says, flushing a little under his keen gaze, as she walks on, her silken skirts sweeping the avenue, in the perfection of grace.
"Read mine, then," he answers, half jestingly, half curious as to her boasted power, as they fall a little behind the elder lady.
"I cannot," she answers, "I would not attempt it."
"Nay," he insists, "fair seeress, read me even one expression that has crossed my tell-tale face to-day—come, I want to test your power."
"Well," she answers, half-reluctantly, "once to-day in the gallery, there was a look on your face—flitting and momentary, though—that reminded me of this line which I have somewhere read:
"'Despair that spurns atonement's power.'"
"Was I right?" looking away from him half-sorry that she had said it, and fearful of wounding him.
And "silence gave consent."