“My name?” I inquired.
“Hector O’Halloran.”
“Well, I was not aware you knew me. That knowledge is easily acquired. My profession?”
“Your father’s. Am I right?”
I bowed.
“What else do you require from me?” said the woman.
Isidora had turned pale; for the readiness with which each question had been answered, seemed to infer that the gipsy really possessed the intelligence she boasted.
“Come,” I said, “one question more, and that if answered shall make me a true believer;—tell me my age!”
“Well—let me think a moment,” she returned, and placing her open hand across her forehead, she seemed for a few moments to tax her memory, as if engaged in mental calculations.
“Ay, that was the year,” she muttered; then, turning to me, she coolly answered, “On Thursday next you will be twenty.”