It was of white silk, that had been thinly stained a soft
yellow, like the yellow of faded yellow rose-leaves. It was
painted with innumerable plump little cupids, flying among pale
clouds. The sticks were of mother-of=pearl. The end-sticks
were elaborately incised, and in the incisions opals were set,
big ones and small ones, smouldering with green and scarlet
fires.

"Very pretty indeed," said Peter, "and very curious. It's like
a great butterfly's wing is n't it? But are n't you afraid of
opals?"

"Afraid of opals?" she wondered. "Why should one be?"

"Unless your birthday happens to fall in October, they're
reputed to bring bad luck," he reminded her.

"My birthday happens to fall in June but I 'll never believe
that such pretty things as opals can bring bad luck," she
laughed, taking the fan, which he returned to her, and stroking
one of the bigger opals with her finger tip.

"Have you no superstitions?" he asked.

"I hope not--I don't think I have," she answered. "We're not
allowed to have superstitions, you know--nous autres
Catholiques."

"Oh?" he said, with surprise. "No, I did n't know."