"Do you generally come here?" she asked, when we had leisure.
"Infrequently--no oftener than I have a franc in my pocket. But details
of my fasts would form a poor recital, and I make a capital listener."
"You also make a capital luncheon," she remarked.
"Do not prevaricate," I said severely. "I am consumed with impatience
to hear the history of your life. Be merciful and communicative."
"Well, I am young, fair, accomplished, and of an amiable disposition,"
she began, leaning her elbows on the table.
"These things are obvious. Come to confidences! What is your
profession?"
"By profession I am a clairvoyante and palmist," she announced.
I gave her my hand at once, and I was in two minds about giving her my
heart. "Proceed," I told her; "reveal my destiny!"
Her air was profoundly mystical.
"In the days of your youth," she proclaimed, "your line of authorship
is crossed by many rejections."
"Oh, I am an author, hein? That's a fine thing in guesses!"
"It is written!" she affirmed, still scrutinising my palm. "Your
dramatic lines are--er--countless; some of them are good. I see danger;
you should beware of--I cannot distinguish!" she clasped her brow and
shivered. "Ah, I have it! You should beware of hackneyed situations."
"So the Drama is 'written,' too, is it?"
"It is written, and I discern that it is already accepted," she said.
"For at the juncture where the Eclatant is eclipsed by the Cafe du Bel
Avenir, there is a distinct manifestation of cash.
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