“Oh, why not say all?” smiles Wycherley, giving him a sly dig in the ribs.
“You know there are exceptions to every rule, my dear boy. Since we are under the enchantment of this unknown Circe, let us act as though we believed in the rubbish and have our fortunes told.”
“Oh, I’ve done that before. She predicted that I would win much gold, but that it could never stick to my fingers. Think of that. There’s the cool million to-morrow—perhaps she means that—and I reckon she’s right about it not sticking, for how can a man hold that which he hath not.”
“There goes the pasha up.”
“Now keep your eyes open.”
“She does not seem to have noticed him before. See how she starts and draws back as though a sudden fear had penetrated her heart.”
“Right you are. I believe she has recognized him.”
“And he?”
“His actions indicate that on his part he entertains a suspicion, which he is bound to verify. Now he speaks to her. I would that I knew Arabic, that I might translate what he says. My early education was somewhat neglected in that respect. She replies in a low tone—I swear her voice trembles with fear. Why should she dread this man? Tell me that.”
“I cannot say. Wait, and we may learn something that will give us an insight. I am deeply interested in all he does.”