with your letter: and, till then, I shall say, in the words of the old song, 'Oh for Friday nicht! Friday's lang a-coming!"
"Yours always,
"Arthur Forester.
"P.S. Do you believe in Fate?"
This Postscript puzzled me sorely. "He Is far too sensible a man" I thought, "to have become a Fatalist. And yet what else can he mean by it?" And, as I folded up the letter and put it away, I inadvertently repeated the words aloud. "Do you believe in Fate?"
The fair "Incognita" turned her head quickly at the sudden question. "No, I don't!" she said with a smile. "Do you?"
"I—I didn't mean to ask the question!" I stammered, a little taken aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion.
The lady's smile became a laugh—not a mocking laugh, but the laugh of a happy child who is perfectly at her ease. "Didn't you?" she said. "Then it was a case of what you Doctors call 'unconscious cerebration'?"
"I am no Doctor," I replied. "Do I look so like one? Or what makes you think it?"
She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its title, "Diseases of the Heart," was plainly visible.
"One needn't be a Doctor" I said, "to take an interest in medical books. There's another class of readers, who are yet more deeply interested"
"You mean the Patients? she interrupted, while a look of tender pity gave new sweetness to her face. "But," with an evident wish to avoid a possibly painful topic, "one needn't be either, to take an interest in books of Science, Which contain the greatest amount of Science, do you think, the books, or the minds?"
