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At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information, and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you asked for it, and now you’ve got it.”

“It’s very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in the fancy knickers is?”

“Ah, I daresay you’ll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.

“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.

“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.

“You’ll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.

“I’m glad it’s to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She’s too sensible.”

“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl? Tell me that.”

“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P’r’aps you’ll tell me I’m not sensible!”

Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet’s, rumored to possess money, and an uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his native obstinacy prevented him from going.

It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier than usual, and Mr. Dowson’s manner when he entered the room and greeted his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily between the bars.

“I’ve been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this ‘ere fortune-telling as we’ve been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”

“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.

“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie and Flora went to.”

“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I’d trust what she says afore anything.”

“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up courage; “and they all believe ‘er. They couldn’t help themselves; they said so.”

“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly. “Might get mixed up, so to speak.”

“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.

“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.

Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It lighted on Mr. Foss.

“She’s an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I’ve a good mind to put the police on to her.”

Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.

“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson; “naturally he’d say so; he’s got reasons. I believe every word she says. If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”

“Don’t say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don’t say that. That’s what she did say!”

“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at the table. “Eighteenpence is ‘er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I’d like to know what’s going to ‘appen to me, I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”

“Well, you’re upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You get upstairs to bed.”

“I’d sooner stay ‘ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I ‘adn’t gorn, that’s what I wish.”

“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.

Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately. “She says I’m to live to ninety, and I’m to travel to foreign parts—-“