‘Do tell me what it was,’ she urged earnestly. ‘My dear child, I have no more to tell you. The hand shows character rather than fate. Your character is as yet but half developed. If you want a warning, I would say to you: Beware of the strength of your own nature. In that lies your greatest danger. Life is easiest to those who can take it lightly—who can bend their backs to any burden, and be grateful for every ray of sunshine.’ ‘Yes,’ she answered contemptuously; ‘for the drudges. But please tell me the rest. I know you read something in these queer little lines and wrinkles,’ scrutinising her pink palm as she spoke, ‘something strange and startling—for you were startled. You can’t deny that.’ ‘I am not going to admit or deny anything,’ said Nero, with a quiet firmness that conquered her, resolute as she was when her own pleasure or inclination was in question. ‘The oracle has spoken. Make the most you can of his wisdom.’ ‘You have told me nothing,’ she said, pouting, but submissive. ‘And now let us go out of this bakery, under the trees yonder, where your friend looks so happy with her crochet-work.’ ‘I think we ought to go home,’ hesitated Daphne, not in the least as if she meant it. ‘Home! nonsense. It isn’t one o’clock yet; and you don’t dine at one, do you?’ ‘We dine at six,’ replied Daphne with dignity, ‘but we sometimes lunch at half-past one.’ ‘Your luncheon isn’t a very formidable affair, is it—hardly worth going home for?’ ‘It will keep,’ said Daphne. ‘If there is anything more to be seen, Martha and I may as well stop and see it.’ ‘There are the gardens, beyond measure lovely on such a day as this; and there is the famous vinery; and, I think, if we could find a very retired spot out of the ken of yonder beardless patrol, I might smuggle in the materials for another picnic.’ ‘That would be too delightful,’ cried Daphne, clapping her hands in childish glee, forgetful of fate and clairvoyance. They strolled slowly through the blinding heat towards that cool grove where patient Martha sat weaving her web, as inflexible in her stolid industry as if she had been one of the fatal sisters. ‘What have you been doing all this time, Daphne?’ she asked, lifting up her eyes as they approached. ‘Feeding the carp. You have no idea what fun they are.’ ‘I wonder you are not afraid of a sunstroke.’ ‘I am never afraid of anything, and I love the sun. Come, Martha, roll up that everlasting crochet, and come for a ramble. We are going to explore the gardens, and by-and-by Mr. Nero is going to get us some lunch.’