"But you don't understand; my husband's coming; I have to meet him at the station at 12.32." Mr. Pownceby stroked his moustache; there was not much, but he was fond of stroking what there was of it. Mrs. Pratt's husband had been rather a joke. People who winter in hotels are, as a rule, quite prepared to be epigrammatic at the expense of a pretty married woman whose husband is not in evidence. And Mrs. Pratt's husband had not been in evidence--as yet. "I don't quite follow you." Mr. Pownceby spoke with a little malice. "Whence your sorrow? Because your husband is coming by the 12.32?" "Don't you see, I want to be the first to be experimented on. I've been waiting for that book two days, and now it just comes when I can't stay. Don't' you think there's time? Come into my sitting-room." They went into her sitting-room. When they were there, the lady again assailed the gentleman with the inquiry: "Don't you think there's time?" "It depends. I think you're going too fast. To commence with, I've been looking through the thing in the smoking-room, and I believe it's a swindle." "A swindle! Oh, don't say that." "It's nothing but a hash of old mesmeric tricks I've seen performed at country fairs." "But doesn't it tell you how to do them?" "It pretends to. It gives some ridiculous directions--but I don't believe they can be done that way." "Try!--do!--on me!" Mr. Pownceby laughed. Mrs. Pratt amused him; and not for the first time either. "To begin with, we have to sit face to face and stare at each other for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour." "Come along! Let's begin." The lady brought forward a couple of chairs and they sat down on them, face to face; and very close together. Opening the pamphlet, Mr. Pownceby searched for further instructions. "You're not staring at me," remarked the lady. "Half a minute; I'm looking for what comes next." "What does it say? Read it aloud." "After I've stared at you long enough----It doesn't sound civil, does it?" "Never mind the civility; go on!" "'After I've stared at you long enough, you begin to feel queer. Then'"--Mr. Pownceby read from the pamphlet, "'Place the thumb of your left hand on the subject's forehead'--you're the subject--'just above the nose, and level with the eyebrows.'" Mrs. Pratt placed her pretty little hand above her pretty little nose to point out the exact spot denoted. Mr. Pownceby read on. "'This is the locality of the Phrenological Organ of Individuality.'" "Is it?" said Mrs. Pratt in an awe-struck whisper. The reader continued: