Joan's youth and ignorance and unconscious wisdom shone forth. Mrs.
Tweksbury amused her, but the man at the table disturbed her. She
misinterpreted the calm glance he fixed upon her. It was a disapproving
glance, to be sure, and Joan shrank from that, but she felt that he was
cruelly misjudging her and was so sure of himself that he dared to do
it--without even knowing!

This she resented with a flash of her wonderful eyes.

What Raymond really meant was--doubt. Not of her, but himself.

"Saucy witch!" whispered Mrs. Tweksbury; "Ken, test her, for my sake!"
Again the foot under the table steered Raymond's thoughts.

He found himself smiling up at Joan and, rising, offered her the third
chair at his table.

She sat down quite indifferently, but graciously, and spread out her
pretty hands. Joan's hands were lovely--Raymond was susceptible to
hands. To him they indicated fineness or the reverse. Art could do much
for hands, but Nature could do more.

Quite as graciously and simply as Joan had done Raymond spread his own
hands forth with the remark: "At your mercy, Sibyl."

Now Joan, through much study of books and with a certain intuition that
stood her in good stead, had cleverly conquered her tricks. For what
they were worth, she offered them charmingly, seriously, and with
impressiveness.

Then, too, from much guessing, with astonishing results, she had grown
to half believe in what she was doing. Patricia aided her in this.
Patricia had a superstitious streak and took to fads as she took to her
verse--on her flying trips.

"You are a business man," Joan began, fixing her splendid eyes on the
frankly upturned hands--she was comparing them with the hands of the
Third Sex, those studio-haunting men whose hands, like their linen and
morals, were too often off-colour.

"An honest business man!" Joan thought that, but did not voice it.

"You will succeed--if----" This she spoke aloud and then looked up. She
was ready now to punish her prey for that look of doubt in his eyes.

"If--what?" Raymond was conscious of the "feel" of the hand which held
his--Joan's other hand was lying open beside his on the table.

"If----" and now Joan traced delicately a line in his palm--a faint,
wavering line running hither and thither among the more strongly marked
ones; "if you strengthen this line," she said. "You are too sure of--of
your inherited traits. This line indicates individuality; it will rule
in the end, but you a