"I want to," she repeated. "I won't say anything that I oughtn't to."
Webster laughed harshly. He did not want to hear the girl unfolding her history before an audience.
"Keep out of it, Dolly; only make fool yourself," he advised. "You're such little coward——"
"I know!" She seemed to take the sneer as a compliment. "But I'm gingered up now. I want to know! I want to know if I'm going to die. They said I was, but they only did it to frighten me and get me away to a sanatorium. I'm going to find out!"
While Webster was still sluggishly trying to make up his mind, she darted past him and presented herself to Madame Hilary. Summertown yielded place reluctantly and joined the group at the door. Before the lights were lowered, the Master of the Ceremonies found time to whisper, "Cut it short. Others want turn, too. Leave out Past and Present; it's Future she's interested in."
There was a rustle of dresses and a squeak of castors, as the audience settled into chairs and the lights were lowered. After the same initial silence the same droning voice pronounced the elementals of the creed. "Though men have tried by the stars and by crystal balls, by cards and numbers and pools of ink, they have not hitherto looked for the Future within themselves...."
"How long does this tripe go on?" Summertown enquired so audibly that the girl started and turned towards the shadowy group by the fire.
Madame Hilary pushed back her chair and rose to her feet with dignity.
"Please! I cannot continue—like this." At a murmured apology she consented to sit down again, and the momentarily human voice became lost in the professional drone of the mystic. "Keep your eyes on mine—so! It is all I ask. I like better that you resist, that you determine not to answer my questions. But, if you look into my eyes, you will tell me all that I ask you. You must. You are telling me now! You are telling me now your name! It is—that name?"
"Dorothea Prilton. I'm called Dolly May on the stage."