Chaldea, that a desire to marry the man was the wish in question. And
seeing how indifferent Lambert was in the presence of the tall lady,
Mother Cockleshell had no difficulty in adjusting the situation in her
own artful mind. "No, my lady," she said, casting away the hand with
quite a dramatic gesture. "You will never gain your wish."

Miss Greeby looked angry. "Bah! Your fortune-telling is all rubbish, as
I have always thought," and she moved away.

"Tell me that in six months," screamed the old woman after her.

"Why six months?" demanded the other, pausing.

"Ah, that's a dark saying," scoffed the gypsy. "Call it seven, my
hopeful-for-what-you-won't-get, like the cat after the cream, for
seven's a sacred number, and the spell is set."

"Gypsy jargon, gypsy lies," muttered Miss Greeby, tossing her ruddy
mane. "I don't believe a word. Tell me--"

"There's no time to say more," interrupted Mother Cockleshell rudely,
for, having secured her money, she did not think it worth while to be
polite, especially in the face of her visitor's scepticism. "One of our
tribe--aye, and he's a great Romany for sure--is coming to camp with us.
Each minute he may come, and I go to get ready a stew of hedgehog, for
Gentile words I must use to you, who are a Gorgio. And so good day to
you, my lady," ended the old hag, again becoming the truly respectable
pew-opener. Then she dropped a curtsey--whether ironical or not, Miss
Greeby could not tell--and disappeared into the tent, followed by the
white cat, who haunted her footsteps like the ghost she declared it to