Now Joan, through much study of books and with a certain intuition that stood her in good stead, had cleverly conquered her tricks.  For what they were worth, she offered them charmingly, seriously, and with impressiveness.

Then, too, from much guessing, with astonishing results, she had grown to half believe in what she was doing.  Patricia aided her in this.  Patricia had a superstitious streak and took to fads as she took to her verse—­on her flying trips.

“You are a business man,” Joan began, fixing her splendid eyes on the frankly upturned hands—­she was comparing them with the hands of the Third Sex, those studio-haunting men whose hands, like their linen and morals, were too often off-colour.

“An honest business man!” Joan thought that, but did not voice it.

“You will succeed—­if——­” This she spoke aloud and then looked up.  She was ready now to punish her prey for that look of doubt in his eyes.

“If—­what?” Raymond was conscious of the “feel” of the hand which held his—­Joan’s other hand was lying open beside his on the table.

“If——­” and now Joan traced delicately a line in his palm—­a faint, wavering line running hither and thither among the more strongly marked ones; “if you strengthen this line,” she said.  “You are too sure of—­of your inherited traits.  This line indicates individuality; it will rule in the end, but you are making personality your god now.  That is unwise.  As a well-trained servant it is wonderful, but as a master it will run you off your best course.”

How Patricia would have gloried could she have heard her words mouthed by Joan!

Raymond stared.  He felt Mrs. Tweksbury’s foot on his and, mentally, clung to it as a familiar and safe landmark.

“Just what difference lies between individuality and personality?” he asked so seriously that Joan’s mouth twitched under her life-saving veil.  She brought Patricia’s philosophy into more active action.

“The difference is the meaning of life.  One comes into this consciousness with his individuality—­or soul, or whatever one cares to call it—­intact.  It accepts or repudiates what the personality—­that is intellect—­learns through the five senses.  If it is truth, then it becomes part of the individuality—­if it is untruth, it is discarded.  Individuality is never in doubt—­it knows.  It is not bound by foolish laws evolved from the five-sensed personality; it will, in the end, have its way.  You will have to listen more to your individuality; be controlled less by your personality.  The latter is too fully developed”—­at this broad slash Raymond coloured in spite of himself—­“the former has been pitifully ignored.”

The pause that followed was made normal only by the pressure on Raymond’s foot.

Presently he said, boldly: 

“You have the same line in your own hand, Sibyl!”

Joan started and looked down.  She had not considered a home thrust possible.  Instinctively her long, slim fingers clutched the secret of her palm.