Chapter 1 - Page 2

hand twice a week regularly,' continued Lady
Windermere, 'and is most interesting about it.'

'Good heavens!' said the Duchess to herself, 'he is a sort of
cheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a
foreigner at any rate. It wouldn't be quite so bad then.'

'I must certainly introduce him to you.'

'Introduce him!' cried the Duchess; 'you don't mean to say he is
here?' and she began looking about for a small tortoise-shell fan
and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a
moment's notice.

'Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without
him. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb
had been the least little bit shorter, I should have been a
confirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent.'

'Oh, I see!' said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; 'he tells
fortunes, I suppose?'

'And misfortunes, too,' answered Lady Windermere, 'any amount of
them. Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land
and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner
in a basket every evening. It is all written down on my little
finger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.'

'But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.'

'My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this
time. I think every one should have their hands told once a month,
so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same,
but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn't go and
fetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.'

'Let me go, Lady Windermere,' said a tall handsome young man, who
was standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile.

'Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn't recognise
him.'

'If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn't well
miss him. Tell me what he is like, and I'll bring him to you at
once.'

'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