months with some gipsies. They taught me lots of things."

His memory, excellently trained, did not allow itself to dwell for an
instant on his reason for following those gipsies, on the dark-eyed
black-haired girl with the skin like pale amber, who had taught him,
by the flicker of the camp-fire, the lines of head and heart and life,
and other things beside. Oh, but many other things! That was before he
became an artist. He was only an amateur in those days.

"Did they teach you how to tell fortunes--really and truly?" asked
Betty. "We had a fortune-teller's tent at the School Bazaar last year,
and the youngest Smithson girl dressed up in spangles and a red dress
and said she was Zara, the Eastern Mystic Hand-Reader, and Foreteller
of the Future. But she got it all out of Napoleon's Book of Fate."

"I don't get my fortune-telling out of anybody's book of anything," he
said. "I get it out of people's hands, and their faces. Some people's
faces are their fortunes, you know."

"I know they are," she said a little sadly, "but everybody's got a
hand and a fortune, whether they've got that sort of fortune-face or
not."

"But the fortunes of the fortune-faced people are the ones one likes
best to tell."

"Of course," she admitted wistfully, "but what's going to happen to
you is just as interesting to _you_, even if your face isn't
interesting to anybody. Do you always tell fortunes quite truly; I
mean do you follow the real rules? or do you make up pretty fortunes