But Vane shook his head with a laugh. "Cross my palm with silver, pretty lady, and the old gipsy will tell your fortune. . . . I see a girl in grey surrounded by men-servants and maid-servants, and encased in costly furs and sparkling gems. Standing at the door outside is a large and expensive Limousine into which she steps. The door is shut, and the car glides off, threading its way through the London traffic. At last the road becomes clearer, the speed increases, until after an hour's run the car swings in between some old lodge gates. Without a sound it sweeps up the drive, and the girl sees the first glint of the lake through the trees. There is a weeping willow too, and as her eyes rest on it she smiles a little, and then she sighs. The next moment the car is at the front door, and she is in the arms of a man who has come out to meet her. She calls him 'Dad,' and there's a boy just behind him, with his hands in his pockets, who has eyes for nothing except the car. Because it's 'some' car. . . . She spends the day there, and when she's leaving, the man she calls 'Dad' puts his hand on her arm. He just looks at her--that's all, and she smiles back at him. For there's no worry now on his face, no business trouble to cut lines on his brow. But sometimes--he wonders; and then she just smiles at him, and his doubts vanish. They never put it into words those two, and perhaps it is as well. . . . A smile is so easy, it conceals so much. Not that there's much to hide on her part. With her eyes wide open she made her choice, and assuredly it had been worth while. Her father was happy; the old house was safe and her husband was kind. . . . Only as the car glides away from the door, her grey eyes once again rest on a weeping willow. A fat old carp rises with a splash and she sees the ripples widening. . . . And the smile fades from her lips, because--well, thoughts are capricious things, and the weeping willow and the carp remind her of a certain afternoon, and what a certain foolish weaver of fantasies said to her. . . once in the long ago. Much has she got--much has she given to others. It may have been worth while--but she has lost the biggest thing in Life. That has passed her by. . . ." "The biggest thing in Life," she whispered. "I wonder; oh! I wonder." "Maybe she would never have found it," he went on, "even if she had not married the man of great possessions. And then, indeed, she could have said with reason--'I sure have made a damn fool of myself.' To throw away the chances of costly furs and sparkling gems; to see _les papillons noirs_ fluttering round her father's head in increasing numbers--and not to find the biggest thing in Life after such a sacrifice--yes, that would be too cruel. So, on balance, perhaps she had chosen wisely. . . ."