I looked up, not a little surprised. It was the beautiful young girl
who had spoken. She was leaning on her elbows, her chin propped in her
palms, and the light in her grey _chatoyant_ eyes was wholly innocent
and mischievous. In Monsieur Mouquin's cellar people are rather
Bohemian, not to say friendly; for it is the rendezvous of artists,
literary men and journalists,--a clan that holds formality in contempt.

"Tell your fortune?" I repeated parrot-like.

"Yes."

"Your mirror can tell you that more accurately than I can," I replied
with a frank glance of admiration.

She drew her shoulders together and dropped them. "I spoke to you,
sir, because I believed you wouldn't say anything so commonplace as
that. When one sees a man soberly shuffling a pack of cards in a place
like this, one naturally expects originality."

"Well, perhaps you caught me off my guard,"--humbly.

"I am original. Did you ever before witness this performance in a
public restaurant?"--making the cards purr.

"I can not say I have,"--amused.

"Well, no more have I!"

"Why, then, do you do it?"--with renewed interest.