ne did, he and she politely
suppressed a doubtful look and applauded the suggestion of a
fortune-telling expedition.

"Let us make up a party and go," said the hostess, only too thankful to
find something to amuse the house-party for a few hours. "Where did you
say the gypsies were, Garvington?"

"In the Abbot's Wood," replied her husband, a fat, small round-faced
man, who was methodically devouring a large breakfast.

"That's only three miles away. We can drive or ride."

"Or motor, or bicycle, or use Shanks' mare," remarked Miss Greeby rather
vulgarly. Not that any one minded such a speech from her, as her
vulgarity was merely regarded as eccentricity, because she had money and
brains, an exceedingly long tongue, and a memory of other people's
failings to match.

Lord Garvington made no reply, as breakfast, in his opinion, was much
too serious a business to be interrupted. He reached for the marmalade,
and requested that a bowl of Devonshire cream should be passed along.
His wife, who was lean and anxious-looking even for an August hostess,
looked at him wrathfully. He never gave her any assistance in
entertaining their numerous guests, yet always insisted that the house
should be full for the shooting season. And being poor for a titled
pair, they could not afford to entertain even a shoeblack, much less a
crowd of hungry sportsmen and a horde of frivolous women, who required
to be amused expensively. It was really too bad of Garvington.

At this point the reflections of the hostess were interrupted by Miss
Greeby, who always had a great deal to say, and who always tried, as an
American would observe, "to run the circus." "I suppose you men will go
out shooting as usual?" she said in her sharp, clear voice.

The men present collectively declared that such was their intention, and
that they had come to "The Manor" for that especial purpose, so it was
useless to ask them, or any one of them, to go on a fortune-telling
expedition when they could find anything of that sort in Bond Street.
"And it's all a lot of rot, anyhow," declared one sporting youth with
obviously more muscle and money than brains; "no one can tell my
fortune."

"I can, Billy. You will be Prime Minister," flashed out Miss Greeby, at
which there was a general laugh. Then Garvington threw a bombshell.

"You'd better get your fortunes told to-day, if you want to," he
grunted, wiping his mustache; "for to-morrow I'm going to have these
rotters