'Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not
mysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stout
man, with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles;
something between a family doctor and a country attorney. I'm
really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying.
All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all my poets look
exactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking a most
dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so many
people, and always wore a coat of mail, and carried a dagger up his
shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came he looked just like
a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening? Of course,
he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully disappointed;
and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only laughed, and
said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr.
Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of
Paisley's hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the
left hand, the other.'

'Dear Gladys, I really don't think it is quite right,' said the
Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.

'Nothing interesting ever is,' said Lady Windermere: 'on a fait le
monde ainsi. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr.
Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of
Paisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon
than I have, I will never believe in you again.'

'I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,' said
the Duchess gravely.