"Tell your fortune?" I repeated parrot-like.
"Yes."
"Your mirror can tell you that more accurately than I can," I replied
with a frank glance of admiration.
She drew her shoulders together and dropped them. "I spoke to you,
sir, because I believed you wouldn't say anything so commonplace as
that. When one sees a man soberly shuffling a pack of cards in a place
like this, one naturally expects originality."
"Well, perhaps you caught me off my guard,"--humbly.
"I am original. Did you ever before witness this performance in a
public restaurant?"--making the cards purr.
"I can not say I have,"--amused.
"Well, no more have I!"
"Why, then, do you do it?"--with renewed interest.
"Shall I tell your fortune?"
"Not now. I had much rather you would tell me the meaning of this
play."
I leaned toward her and whispered mysteriously: "The truth is, I belong
to a secret society, and I was cutting the cards to see whether or not
I should blow up the post-office to-night or the police-station. You
mustn't tell anybody."
"Oh!" She started back from the table. "You do not look it," she
added suddenly.
"I know it; appearances are so deceptive," said I sadly.
Then the old man laughed, and the girl laughed, and I laughed; and I
wasn't quite sure that the grave waiter did not crack the ghost of a
smile--in relief.
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