It was a wet morning and we were all lolling about the billiard-room in various stages of boredom.  Some of the more energetic members of the party had been out at dawn, cub hunting, and had returned wet through just as we finished breakfast, in time to add their little quota of grumbling to the general bulk of discontent.  Mrs. Maitland, after making a fruitless attempt to rally the spirits of the party, gave up the effort in despair and retired to write letters in her room.  Conversation was carried on in fits and starts, whilst from time to time people knocked about the billiard balls in a desultory fashion without exhibiting even a show of interest in the result of the game.

At last someone introduced the subject of fortune-telling.  Instantly there was a revival of interest.  Everybody had some scrap of experience to contribute, or some marvellous story to relate.  Only Miss Latouche remained silent.

“What a pity none of us can tell fortunes!” cried Lily Wallace, eagerly.  “Won’t anybody try?  It’s such fun, almost as amusing as turning tables, and it often comes true in the most wonderful way!”

“Ah, it does indeed!” sighed Mr. Tucker, with a countenance of preternatural gravity.  “A poor fellow I know was told that he would marry and then die.  Well, it’s all coming true!”

“Indeed!  Really!  How very shocking!”

“Yes, indeed!  Poor chap!  He married last year and now he has nothing but death before him!”

“How awfully sad!” exclaimed Lily, sympathetically.  “Why, you are smiling!  Oh, you bad man.  I do believe you were only laughing at me after all!  Now, Irene, will you please tell Mr. Tucker’s fortune, and show him that it is no joking matter?  I am sure you know the way, because I have seen a mysterious book about palmistry in your room.  Now do, there’s a dear girl.”

After a little more pressing, Miss Latouche acceded to the general request that she would show her skill.  Several people pressed forward at once to have their fortunes told, the men being quite as eager as the girls, although they affected to laugh at the whole affair.  I watched the exhibition with some interest.  Surely here would be a fair field for the exercise of that wonderful dramatic power which I knew Miss Latouche held in reserve.  Well, I was disappointed.  She examined the hands submitted to her notice, and interpreted the lines with an amount of conscientious commonplaceness for which I should never have given her credit.  The majority of the fortunes were composed of the conventional mixture of illnesses and love affairs which is the stock-in-trade of drawing-room magicians.  I glanced at her face.  Not a trace of enthusiasm was visible.  She was telling fortunes as mechanically as a cottager knits stockings.

“Now we have all been done except Mr. Carew!  It’s his turn!” cried Lily, who was enjoying the whole thing immensely.  “He must have his fortune told!  You will do him next, won’t you, Irene?”