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'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.
He was sitting in the smoking-room of the club having tea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton's account of the last comic song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He took up the St. James's, and was listlessly turning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye: SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST. He turned pale with excitement, and began to read.
'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.
The paragraph ran as follows: Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore at Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate gentleman had been missing for some days, and considerable anxiety for his safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles.
'We are all waiting, cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply. 'I believe Arthur is going on the stage, said Lady Jedburgh, 'and that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so. Suddenly Mr.
What is your club? 'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address is , but allow me to give you my card'; and producing a bit of gilt-edge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed it, with a low bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it, Mr. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERS Professional Cheiromantist 103a West Moon Street 'My hours are from ten to four, murmured Mr.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear contralto voice, 'Where is my cheiromantist? 'Your what, Gladys? exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary start. 'My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can't live without him at present.
Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he could detect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry broke from his trembling lips. Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it.
'Dear Gladys! you are always so original, murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the same as a cheiropodist. 'He comes to see my 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.
Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired? 'Not at all, dear Gladys, answered the Duchess, waddling towards the door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting.
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