“Now, for my sake, don’t botch this business,” he added. “I’ve played a joke or two in my time, but this is the best I’ve ever done, and I don’t want it spoiled by inattention to details. It’ll be worth all the trouble to see Maurice’s face when he finds what’s happened.”
“I’M thankful I took my wings off,” said Ariel, leaning back in her chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction. “You’ve no notion how much you long to sit down when you know you daren’t do it for fear of crushing the frames of these things. It’s not tiredness; it’s simply tantalization.”
She turned her eyes inquisitively on the bearded figure of her partner.
“I wonder who you’re supposed to be?” she mused. “You ought to have a ticket, with a costume like that. I can’t guess who you imagine you are—or who you really are, for that matter.”
Her companion showed no desire to enlighten her on the last point.
“‘My quaint Ariel, hark in thine ear,’” he quoted, but she failed to recognize the tones of his voice.
“Oh, now I see! We did The Tempest one year at school. So you’re Prospero, are you? Well, don’t let’s begin by any misunderstandings. If you think you’re entitled to act your part by ordering me about, you’re far mistaken. My trade union positively refuses to permit any overtime.”
“I’ve left my book and staff in the cloak-room,” Prospero confessed, laughingly, “otherwise, malignant spirit . . .”
“‘That’s my noble master!’” quoted Ariel, ironically. “Prospero was a cross old thing. I suppose you couldn’t even throw in a bit of conjuring to keep up appearances? It’s almost expected of you.”
Prospero looked cautiously round the winter-garden in which they were sitting.
“Not much field here for my illimitable powers,” he grumbled disparagingly, “unless you’d like me to turn Falstaff over there into a white rabbit. And that would startle his partner somewhat, I’m afraid, so we’d better not risk it.”
He pondered for a moment.
“I hate to disappoint you, Ariel. What about a turn at divination? Would it amuse you if I told your fortune, revealed the secrets of your soul, and what not? This is how I do it; it’s called Botanomancy, if you desire to pursue your studies on a more convenient occasion.”
He stretched up his hand and plucked a leaf from the tropical plant above his head. Ariel watched him mischievously from behind her mask.
“Well, Prospero, get along with it, will you? The next dance will be starting sooner than immediately.”
Prospero pretended to study the leaf minutely before continuing.
“I see a girl who likes to play at having her own way . . . and isn’t too scrupulous in her methods of getting it. She is very happy . . . happier, perhaps, than she has ever been before. . . . I see two Thresholds, one of which she has just crossed, the other which she will cross after this next dance, I think. Yes, that is correct. There’s some influence in the background. . . .”
He broke off and regarded Ariel blandly.
“So much for the signs. Now for the interpretation. You are obviously in the very early twenties; so I infer that the Threshold you are about to cross lies between your twentieth and twenty-first birthday. Putting that along with the character which the leaf revealed . . . Why, Ariel, you must be Miss Joan Chacewater, and you’ve just got engaged!”
“You seem to know me all right, Prospero,” Joan admitted. “But how about the engagement? It’s too dim in here for you to have seen my ring; and besides, I’ve had my hand in the folds of my dress ever since I sat down.”
“Except for one moment when you settled the band round your hair,” Prospero pointed out. “The ring you’re wearing is more than a shade too large for your finger—obviously it’s so new that you haven’t had time to get it altered to fit, yet.”
“You seem to notice things,” Joan admitted. “I wonder who you are.”
Prospero brushed her inquiry aside.
“A little parlour conjuring to finish up the part in due form?” he suggested. “It’s almost time for our dance. Look!”
He held out an empty hand for Joan’s inspection, then made a slight snatch in the air as if seizing something in flight. When he extended his hand again, a small diamond star glittered in the palm.
“Take it, Joan,” said Sir Clinton in his natural voice. “I meant to send it to you to-morrow; but at the last moment I thought I might as well bring it with me and have the pleasure of giving it to you myself. It’s your birthday present. I’m an old enough friend to give you diamonds on a special occasion like this.”
“You took me in completely,” Joan admitted, after she had thanked him. “I couldn’t make out who you were; and I thought you were the limit in insolence when you began talking about my private affairs.”
“It’s Michael Clifton, of course?” Sir Clinton asked.
“Why ‘of course’? One would think he’d been my last chance, by the way you put it. This living on a magic island has ruined your manners, my good Prospero.”
