The other woman--Anna Wolsky was some years older than Sylvia
Bailey--smiled indulgently.
"_Tiens!_" she cried suddenly, "what have you got there?" and she took
the pink card out of Sylvia's hand.
"Madame Cagliostra?" she repeated, musingly. "Now where did I hear that
name? Yes, of course it was from our chambermaid! Cagliostra is a friend
of hers, and, according to her, a marvellous person--one from whom the
devil keeps no secrets! She charges only five francs for a consultation,
and it appears that all sorts of well-known people go to her, even those
whom the Parisians call the _Gratin_, that is, the Upper Crust, from the
Champs Elysees and the Faubourg St. Germain!"
"I don't think much of fortune-tellers," said Sylvia, thoughtfully.
"I went to one last time I was in London and he really didn't tell me
anything of the slightest interest."
Her conscience pricked her a little as she said this, for "Pharaoh" had
certainly predicted a journey which she had then no intention of taking,
and a meeting with a foreign woman. Yet here she was in Paris, and here
was the foreign woman standing close to her!
Nay more, Anna Wolsky had become--it was really rather odd that it should
be so--the first intimate friend of her own sex Sylvia had made since she
was a grown-up woman.
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