“You must have guessed,” faltered Mrs. Caswell, “that Forest and I are not—­not on the best of terms, that we are getting further and further apart.”

It rather startled Constance to hear frankly stated what she already had observed.  She wondered how far the estrangement had gone.  The fact was that she had rather liked deForest Caswell, although she had only met her friend’s husband a few times.  In fact she was surprised that momentarily there flashed through her mind the query as to whether Mildred herself might be altogether blameless in the growing uncongeniality.

Mildred Caswell had drawn out of her chatelaine a bit of newspaper and handed it to Constance, not as if it was of any importance to herself but as if it would explain better than she could tell what she meant.

Constance read: 

      Mme. Cassandra,
     the veiled prophetess

Born with a double veil, educated in occult mysteries in Egypt and India.  Without asking a question, tells your name and reads your secret troubles and the remedy.  Reads your dreams.  Great questions of life quickly solved.  Failure turned to success, the separated brought together, advice on all affairs of life, love, marriage, divorce, business, speculation, and investments.  Overcomes all evil influences.  Ever ready to help and advise those with capital to find a safe and paying investment.  No fee until it succeeds.  Could anything be fairer?

      The retreat,
   —–­W. 47th Street.

“Won’t you come with me to Madame Cassandra?” asked Mrs. Caswell, as Constance finished reading.  “She always seems to do me so much good.”

“Who is Madame Cassandra?” asked Constance, rereading the last part of the advertisement.

“I suppose you would call her a dream doctor,” said Mildred.

It was a new idea to Constance, this of a dream doctor to settle the affairs of life.  Only a moment she hesitated, then she answered simply, “Yes, I’ll go.”

“The retreat” was just off Longacre Square among quite a nest of fakers.  A queue of automobiles before the place testified, however, to the prosperity of Madame Cassandra, as they entered the bronze grilled plate glass door and turned on the first floor toward the home of the Adept.  Constance had an uncomfortable feeling as they entered of being watched behind the shades of the apartment.  Still, they had no trouble in being admitted, and a soft-voiced colored attendant welcomed them.

The esoteric flat of Madame Cassandra was darkened except for the electric lights glowing in amber and rose-colored shades.  There were several women there already.  As they entered Constance had noticed a peculiar, dreamy odor.  There did not seem to be any hurry, any such thing as time here, so skilfully was the place run.  There was no noise; the feet sank in half-inch piles of rugs, and easy-chairs and divans were scattered about.