“Quite probably you’re right,” agreed Blaise. “In which case you must be”--he smiled--“an excellent Christian.” “Positively I believe they’re talking theology!” Claire’s voice, girlishly gay and free from the nervous restraint which normally dulled its cadence of youth, broke suddenly on their ears, as she and Nick, rounding the corner of a big granite boulder, discovered the two recumbent forms. “You disgustingly lazy people!” she pursued indignantly. “Everybody’s dashing wildly to and fro unpacking the lunch baskets, while you two are just lounging here in blissful idleness!” “It’s chronic with me,” murmured Tormarin lazily. “And anyway, Claire, neither you nor Nick appear to be precisely overtaxing yourselves bearing nectar and ambrosia.” “I carried some of the drinks up this confounded hill,” submitted Nick. “And damned heavy they were, too! I can’t _think_”--plaintively--“why people should be so thirsty at a picnic. I’m sure Baines has shoved in enough liquid refreshment to float a ship.” “Praise be!” interpolated Blaise piously. “Oh, we’ve done our share,” supplemented Claire. “And now we’re going to the gipsy who lives here to have our fortunes told.” “Before lunch,” subjoined Nick, “so that in case they’re depressingly bad you can stay us with flagons afterwards.” Jean sat up suddenly, her face alight with interest “Do you mean that there is a real gipsy who tells real fortunes?” she demanded. “Yes--quite real. She’s supposed to be extraordinarily good,” replied Nick. “She is a lady of property, too, since she has acquired a few square yards of the Moor from the Duchy and built herself a little shanty there. She rejoices in the name of Keturah Stanley.” “I should like to have my fortune told,” murmured Jean meditatively. “I’ll take you,” volunteered Blaise. There was a suddenly alert look in his face, as though he, too, would like to hear Jean’s fortune told. “We’ll all go, then,” said Claire. “You must let Keturah tell yours as well, Blaise.” He shook his head. “Thanks, no,” he answered briefly. “I know my fortune quite as well as I have any wish to.” Tormarin’s curt refusal somewhat quenched the gaiety of the moment, and rather soberly they all four made their way down the slope to where, in a little sheltered hollow at the foot of the tor, the sunlight glinted on the corrugated iron roofing of a tiny two-roomed hut, built of wood. Outside, sitting on an inverted pail and composedly puffing away at a clay pipe, they discovered a small, shrivelled old woman, sunning herself, like a cat, in the midday warmth.