re making personality your god now. That is unwise.
As a well-trained servant it is wonderful, but as a master it will run
you off your best course."

How Patricia would have gloried could she have heard her words mouthed
by Joan!

Raymond stared. He felt Mrs. Tweksbury's foot on his and, mentally,
clung to it as a familiar and safe landmark.

"Just what difference lies between individuality and personality?" he
asked so seriously that Joan's mouth twitched under her life-saving
veil. She brought Patricia's philosophy into more active action.

"The difference is the meaning of life. One comes into this
consciousness with his individuality--or soul, or whatever one cares to
call it--intact. It accepts or repudiates what the personality--that is
intellect--learns through the five senses. If it is _truth_, then it
becomes part of the individuality--if it is untruth, it is discarded.
Individuality is never in doubt--it _knows_. It is not bound by foolish
laws evolved from the five-sensed personality; it will, in the end, have
its way. You will have to listen more to your individuality; be
controlled less by your personality. The latter is too fully
developed"--at this broad slash Raymond coloured in spite of
himself--"the former has been pitifully ignored."

The pause that followed was made normal only by the pressure on
Raymond's foot.

Presently he said, boldly:

"You have the same line in your own hand, Sibyl!"

Joan started and looked down. She had not considered a home thrust
possible. Instinctively her long, slim fingers clutched the secret of
her palm.

"I am not reading my own lines," she said, quietly; "I am learning from
them, however!"

Then she rose with dignity and passed to another table where a broad,
flat, commonplace hand lay ready.

"Well?" Mrs. Tweksbury pounced into the arena like a released gladiator.
"What do you make of it, Ken?"

Raymond laughed. He saw that Mrs. Tweksbury was more impressed than she
cared to acknowledge.

"I don't know what she told you, Aunt Emily," he said, taking up the
check beside his plate, "but it was rather cleverly concealed rot, as
far as I am concerned. Drivel; faddy drivel, but the girl's a lady, or
whatever that word stands for. I half believe the child takes herself
seriously--she has wonderful eyes. She should wear blinders--it isn't
fair to leave them outside the veil. Comical little beggar!"

"But, Ken," Emily Tweksbury followed her companion from