“You’ll have to find some one with thoughts to read, then. How are you going to do that?” “Quite easy. I’ll begin now and read yours.” “You can’t, Harilek.” “I’ll wager you a pair of new riding-gloves that I can. A pair of gloves to--what shall I say?--to a piece of that mauve ribbon you wear.” “What ribbon? Oh!” She very hurriedly adjusted the shoulder of her dress. “Will you take the bet?” “And who’s to say if you read them right? If I am not sure, who else is going to be?” “You shall be judge. If I read them right, you will be able to untie the knots. Is it a bet?” She considered. “Yes. I want a pair of gloves.” “You’re very sure of winning?” “Of course I am. Go on, magician.” “Well, at present you’re thinking of the war.” “We’re all thinking of it, worse luck. That doesn’t count.” “Yes, but you’re thinking of the people who are going to the war.” “So is every woman in Sakaeland, Harilek. That doesn’t count either.” She was graver now. “But you see your thoughts are connected with their helmets.” “What do you mean?” She looked at me questioningly. “Why, as to whether some one will ride with a nice favour of--say--a piece of mauve ribbon.” I looked at her, but she was gazing across the table again. “Continue--charlatan,” she said softly as I stopped. “And wondering whether he will ask for the ribbon, or whether, since all fairy princes are perfect fools, it will be necessary to give it to him.” “My new riding-dress is russet, Harilek. I should like fawn gloves with it, and you shall take me out to-morrow and we will see whether such can be found.” “But why? You haven’t explained your judgment so that I can see if it’s right. You haven’t said I’m wrong.” “Because I _never_ thought he--whoever ‘he’ may be--would ask for a piece of ribbon. And as for _giving_ such a favour--if ‘he’ wanted it, he would have to _take_ it.” She turned to me. “You’re not such a success at the magic trade, Harilek. You’d better try something else.” “I shall.” “And what will you try?” “What the soldiers of my country call ‘offensive action,’ a recipe which is very useful for thought-reading.” “You’re pleased to be mysterious now.” However, before I could answer we saw that people were getting up, so we followed into the hall, and I saw little of her after that, as Andros and Forsyth annexed her to sing with Ziné, and I got no more chance of thought-reading that evening. But Forsyth successfully spoilt my sleep by wondering whether Aryenis was going to marry Andros. “I’m sure they’re going to get off soon,” said he, sitting on his bed contemplating the picture of Ziné which he had annexed out of Wrexham’s kit. “They’re always much too busy to worry about Ziné and me when we go out together.” “Don’t suppose _you’ve_ got any grouse on the point, anyway,” said I brutally. “You get the more time to analyze who exactly Ziné reminds you of.”