“I think that is stupid,” the girl returned; “no fun in that kind of thing.”

Joan prolonged each reading at the safe, jolly table; she planned, when she was done, to ignore the man near her and go in the opposite direction, but while she planned she was aware that she would do no such thing.  The bird and the snake know this force, so do the moon and the tides.

And at last Joan got up and turned toward Raymond.  As she passed his table—­he was busy with his soup then—­her head was high and her eyes fixed upon Miss Gordon at the other end of the room.  She was estimating her chances of reaching Elspeth with the limited self-control at her command.  Then she heard words and paused without turning her head.

“I wish you would stop a moment.  I have a question to ask you.”

Joan had a sudden fear that if she did not stop the question would be shouted.

“Very well,” she said, quietly, and sat down opposite Raymond.

She clasped her pretty hands before her and—­waited.

It is not easy to laugh away the moments in life that we cannot account for—­they often seem the only moments of tremendous import; they are the channels which, once entered, give access to wide experiences.  Joan felt her breath coming hard; she was frightened.  Raymond pushed his plate aside and, leaning forward a bit over his clasped hands, said casually: 

“Just how much of this rot do you believe?”

“None of it.”

“Why do you do it?”

“I am earning my bread and butter and—­dessert.”

“Especially—­the dessert?”

“No.  Especially bread and butter.  It is only a bit of fun, you know—­this reading of the palms.  Miss Gordon thinks it—­it aids digestion,” Joan was speaking hardly above a whisper.

“She does, eh?” Raymond had an insane desire to snatch the shielding veil from the face across the table.  He wondered what would happen if he did?

“I wish,” he said instead, “I wish you’d cut it out, you know.”

“What—­my bread and butter?”

“No—­this tomfoolery.  I don’t believe you have to earn your living.  I’d lay a wager that you are doing it as a stunt to vary the monotony of a dull existence, but there are other and better ways of doing that, you know.”

Raymond was deadly earnest and did not stop to consider the absurdity of his words and tones.

“What ways?” asked Joan, and Raymond detected the suggestion of a smile behind the vapoury veil.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that,” he said.

“Perhaps not—­but after consideration I’ve chosen this way.  I like it.”  Joan was getting control of herself, and in proportion to her gain Raymond lost.

“I suppose you think me an impudent ass,” he ventured.

“I’m—­thinking of something else,” Joan answered.

“What, for instance?”

“That line—­in your hand.”