"And who the devil are you?" sputtered Burley, with the air of a man who is not to be easily frightened. "Oh, nobody in particular," said the quiet man in a low voice. And, before he could be questioned further, he had melted unobtrusively into the crowd. *IV* A little later, Robert led three jovial young maskers into the gypsy tent. The foremost was dressed as _Charles Surface_ and had quite enough gay confidence to do justice to the part. "So here’s the Outlaws’ piece of resistance," he called out merrily. "We’ll see whether she can do half as much justice to my palm as to her lovely gypsy shawl." He sat down at Janet’s little table and held out his hand. She took it, examined it gravely for some seconds, and then, in her fine clarinet tones she reported swiftly, without a pause, and getting almost breathless towards the end: "You are handsome, graceful, false and cruel. You’ve been a good soldier, but you’ll become a poor poet. I see you divided into three parts: part one—Charles Surface; part two—Joseph Surface; part three—Sir Peter Teazle. What a pity your name isn’t Henry! For you are as dashing as Henry the Fifth, as amorous as Henry of Navarre, and as kind to women as Henry the Eighth. You will be married twice, but how many hearts you will break I dare not reveal. Your own heart is a safe deposit vault, fireproof and loveproof both. Hapless and witless damsels without number will try to blow it up or melt it—without success. One girl alone will refrain from the attempt, realizing the utter uselessness of piercing this too, too solid flesh—" "Here," cried the young man, drawing away his hand, the laughter and jibing endorsements with which his comrades greeted the several revelations, proving too much for him. "I don’t call this a fortune: I call it a raw deal." "No use abusing the cards," said Janet, still affecting the utmost gravity. "The cards never lie." "Oh, don’t they, Miss Gypsy? That’s where your professional prejudice blinds you. Take your discovery that I’m a poor poet, for instance. Well, the fact is, I’m no poet at all. I never so much as wrote a couplet to a girl in all my life." "I said: you _will become_ a poet," remarked Janet, gently correcting him. "And when will that be, pray?" Janet hastily cut the cards anew, dealt out five cards, and held out the Queen of Spades to the onlookers. "When a dark lady enters your life," she said. "A dark lady _has_ entered my life," he said, his voice vibrating seductively. "Entered it with a very poor opinion of me, it seems. But I shouldn’t call her the Queen of Spades. I should call her Janet, the Queen of Clubs." "Clubs, because I scored so many good hits?" "No, because a Queen of Spades must have lustrous black eyes, and yours are heavenly gray. Come, let’s unmask, and see who’s the better fortune teller of the two."