She approached Marion and laid a damp red hand on her shoulder. 'I bin
lookin' at the cards for you, miss, an' I see a loverly future,' she
began in a coaxing voice. 'I see a tall dark man crossin' water for
you, with a present in 'is right 'and.'

Marion, who was not without a sense of humour, smiled rather wanly.
Encouraged, Elizabeth continued: 'Wot's the use o' spoilin' your pretty
eyes cryin' for the moon--by which I mean Mr. 'Arbinger--when 'e isn't
your Fate? Why, bless you, I was once goin' to marry a plumber's mate,
and jest a week afore the weddin 'e went orf with some one else an'
owin' me arf-a-crown, too. I was cut up at the time, but I know now 'e
wasn't my Fate, 'avin been told since that I'm goin' to marry a man
wot'll work with 'is brain. So cheer up, Miss Marryun, and come an'
'ave this nice glarss o' stout I've brought in for you.' She unscrewed
the bottle as she spoke. 'I always find that when things are at their
worst, an' you're feelin' real pipped like, a glarss o' stout acts like
magic. Yes, it's the right stuff, is stout.'

The situation was distinctly ludicrous. Yet neither Marion nor I
laughed. We watched Elizabeth solemnly pouring out the stout, after
which she handed it to Marion, who, though she 'never touches' anything
alcoholic as a rule, took it and drank it off 'like a lamb,' as
Elizabeth expressed it.

There was a pause. Then the corners of Marion's mouth ceased to droop.
She smiled. I smiled. Elizabeth smiled.

There was another pause. 'I think, Elizabeth,' I remarked, 'I'll have
a glass--just a small glass--of stout myself.'