Mr. Elgood saw what was going on, but was by no means alarmed by the aspect of affairs. He felt himself quite able to take care of Justina, even if Mr. Penwyn had been a hardened libertine instead of a kind-hearted youth fresh from the university. He had no desire to stifle admiration which might mean very little, but which would most likely result in liberal patronage for his own benefit, and a trifling present or two for Justina, a ring, or a bracelet, or a box of gloves. 'I don't want to stand in Justina's light,' mused Mr. Elgood, as he leaned back in his chair and sipped his last glass of champagne, when the pleasures of the table had given way to an agreeable sense of repletion. 'What did that gipsy woman mean by the line of life, and the planets?' asked Justina. She had lost all sense of shyness by this time, and she and James were talking to each other in lowered voices, as much alone as if the rest of the party had been pictures on the wall. Maurice marked them as he sat a little way apart from the others, smoking his black-muzzled pipe. 'Pshaw, only the professional jargon. What does she know of the planets?' 'But she stared at your hand in such a curious way, and looked so awful that she frightened me. Do tell me what she meant.' James laughed, and laid his left hand in Justina's, palm upwards. 'Look there,' he said; 'you see that line, a curved channel that goes from below the first finger to the base of the thumb—that is to say, it should go to the base of the thumb, but in my hand it doesn't. See where the line disappears, midway, just by that seam left by my pocket-knife. You can see no line beyond that scar, _ergo_ the line never travelled further than that point.' Justina closely scrutinized the strong unwrinkled palm. 'What does that mean?' she asked; 'I don't understand even now.' 'It means a short life and a merry one.' The rare bloom faded from Justina's cheek. 'You don't believe in that?' she said, anxiously. 'No more than I believe in gipsies, or spirit-rappers, or the cave of Trophonius,' answered James, gaily. 'What a silly child you are to look so scared!' Justina gave a little sigh, and then tried to smile. Even this first dawn of a girlish fancy, airy as a butterfly's passion for a rose, brought new anxieties along with it. The gipsy's cant was an evil omen that disturbed her like a shapeless fear. Women resemble those mediæval roysterers of whom the old chronicler wrote. They take their pleasure sadly. The moon was at the full. There she sailed, a silver targe, above the distant hill-tops. James looked up at her, looked into that profound world above, which draws the fancies of youth with irresistible power. The room opened on the garden by two long windows, and the one nearest to Mr. Penwyn's end of the table stood open.