“The picture fades,” continued the old man.  “I see another:  a native wedding.  It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued.  Ah! the wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group.  He has a long knife in his hand.  He springs upon the ill-shaped man and wounds him in the head.”

Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the heads of the others swung round to gaze at it.  Mrs. Boxer’s face was terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at anything they do.

“The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one forms.  The same man stands on the deck of a small ship.  The name on the stern is the Peer—­no, Paris—­no, no, no, Pearl.  It fades from the shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out imploringly.  The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the young and beautiful girl from his pocket.”

“Look ’ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ’ad about enough of this rubbish.  I have—­more than enough.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously.  “You can go if you like.  I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.”

“You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson.  “He ain’t said it’s you.  There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I s’pose?”

“I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a trance state during this colloquy.  “She is sailing for England from Australia.  I see the name distinctly:  the Marston Towers.  The same man is on board of her.  The ship arrives at London.  The scene closes; another one forms.  The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a beautiful face —­not the same as the photograph.”

“What they can see in him I can’t think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an envious whisper.  “He’s a perfick terror, and to look at him——­”

“They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice.  “She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he——­”

A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company; Mrs. Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from profiting by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her husband’s head with hearty good-will.  Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his feet, and in the confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the great regret of Mr. Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl.

“I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him.

Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon the table took her daughter’s arm and led her out.  The Thompsons followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the rear.  The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there would be a lot more better men.