“Sir,” said she, in a sharp tone of voice, “I'm told you can tell fortunes.”
“Certainly, madam,” he replied, you have been correctly informed.”
“You won't be offended, then, if I wish to ask you a question or two. It's not about myself, but a sister of mine, who is—ahem—what the censorious world is pleased to call an old maid.”
“Why did your sister not come herself?” he asked; “I cannot predict anything unless the individual is before me; I must have him or her, as the case may be, under my eye.”
“Bless me, sir! I didn't know that; but as I am now here—could you tell me anything about myself?”
“I could tell you many things,” replied the conjurer, who read old maid in every line of her face—“many things not very pleasant for you to reflect upon.”
“O, but I don't wish to hear anything unpleasant,” said she; “tell me something that's agreeable.”
“In the first place, I cannot do so,” he replied; “I must be guided by truth. You have, for instance, been guilty of great cruelty; and although you are but a young woman, in the very bloom of life—”
Here the lady bowed to him, and simpered—her thin, red nose twisted into a gracious curl, as thanking him for his politeness.
“In the very prime of life, madam—yet you have much to be accountable for, in consequence of your very heartless cruelty to the male sex—you see, madam, and you feel too, that I speak truth.”