‘You are not only a married woman,’ she answered; ‘you are also a mother.’
‘How can you tell that by looking at me?’ I cried passionately.
She smiled, but with nothing of her former cringing and fawning expression. Her brilliant eyes seemed to flame into mine as she fixed them upon me.
‘Why should I teach you my art?’ said she. ‘But even if I was willing to teach it I could not make you understand it. There are some who can see clear writing upon what would be white paper to you, and to the likes of you, lady. There is that in your face which makes me know what I tell you. But look at yourself in a looking-glass whilst I stand behind and point to what I see, and what will you behold? Nothing but your face, just as it is.’
‘And you can read that I am a mother?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, with such energy as made the nod she gave fierce.
‘Tell me all that you can read!’ said I, questioning her not, believe me, because I was credulous enough to conceive that she was anything more than a commonplace lying fortune-teller, but because I hoped she would be able to say something to strengthen my own secret growing fancies and feelings.
‘You want me to tell you your fortune again, lady,’ said she; ‘but have I not said I must invent if I speaks more?’
‘I do not want my fortune told. I wish you to make certain guesses. You are shrewd, and a single guess of yours might throw a light upon my mind; and if you can give me back my memory, whatever it may be in my power to do for you shall be done.’
She glared at me as though she was used to promises and disdained them.