The Luminaries

a civilised man.’
    ‘With whom are you uncivilised, one wonders.’
    ‘It’s not a matter of with whom,’ said Mannering. ‘It’s a matter of how far.’
    There was a brief pause.
    ‘How grand that must have felt,’ said Mrs. Wells presently.
    ‘When?’
    ‘Just then,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘What you just said. It must have felt grand.’
    ‘There’s a certain style about you, Mrs. Wells. I’d forgotten it.’
    ‘Is there?’
    ‘Yes—a certain style.’ Mannering reached into his pocket. ‘Here’s the tariff. Daylight robbery, by the way. You can’t charge three shillings in Hokitika for an evening’s entertainment—not if you’re calling up Helen of Troy. The fellows won’t stand for it. Though I oughtn’t to be giving you advice. As of this evening, you and I are direct competitors. Don’t think that I don’t know it: it’ll be the Prince of Wales or the Wayfarer’s Fortune, when the boys turn out their pockets of a Saturday night. I’m a man who takes notice of my competition—and I’m here tonight to take notice of you.’
    ‘A woman likes to be noticed,’ said Mrs. Wells. She accepted the coins, and then pulled the door wide. ‘Anyway,’ she added, as Mannering stepped into the hall, ‘you’re a rotten liar. If you’d forgotten to wind your watch, you wouldn’t have been early, you’d have been late.’
    She shut the door behind him, and set the chain.
    ‘You’re in black,’ Mannering observed.
    ‘Naturally,’ she returned. ‘I am recently widowed, and therefore in mourning.’
    ‘Here’s a fact,’ Mannering said. ‘The colour black is invisible to spirits. I’ll make a bet that you didn’t know that—did you, now! It’s why we wear black at funerals: if we dressed in colour we’d attract the attention of the dead. Wearing black, they can’t make us out.’
    ‘What a charming piece of trivia,’ said Mrs. Wells.
    ‘Do you know what it means, though? It means that Mr. Staines won’t be able to see you. Not in that gown. You’ll be quite invisible to him.’
    She laughed. ‘Dear me. Well, there’s nothing to be done, I suppose . Not at this late stage. I shall have to call the whole evening off.’
    ‘And Anna,’ said Mannering. ‘What colour will she be wearing, tonight?’
    ‘Black, as a matter of fact,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘for she is in mourning also.’
    ‘You’re scuppered,’ said Mannering. ‘The whole enterprise. And all on account of your gowns. How’s that for a stick in a wheel? Thwarted—by your own gowns!’
    Mrs. Wells was no longer smiling. ‘You are irreverent,’ she said, ‘to make sport of the tokens of bereavement.’
    ‘You and I both, Mrs. Wells.’
    They looked at each other for a moment, each searching the other’s expression.
    ‘I have the greatest respect for swindlers,’ said Mannering presently. ‘I ought to—seeing as I count myself among them! But fortune telling—that’s a poor swindle, Mrs. Wells. I’m sorry to say it plain, but there it is.’
    Her expression was still cautious; lightly she said, ‘How so?’
    ‘It’s nothing better than a falsehood,’ said Mannering, stoutly. ‘Tell me the name of the next man to bet against me. Buy me into my next game of brag. Give me the winner of next week’s races. You wouldn’t do it, would you? No, you wouldn’t—because you can’t.’
    ‘I see that you like to doubt, Mr. Mannering.’
    ‘I’m an old hand at this game, that’s why.’
    ‘Yes,’ said the widow, still gazing at him. ‘You relish doubting.’
    ‘Give me the winner of next week’s races, and I’ll never doubt again.’
    ‘I cannot.’
    Mannering spread his hands. ‘There you have it.’
    ‘I cannot; because in asking me for such a thing, you are not asking me to tell your fortune. You are asking me to give you an incontrovertible proof of my own ability. That is what I cannot do. I am a fortune-teller, not a logician.’
    ‘Poor fortune-teller, though, if you can’t see ahead to next Sunday.’
    ‘One of the first lessons one learns, in this discipline, is that nothing about the future is incontrovertible,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘The reason is very simple: a person’s fortune always changes in the telling of it.’
    ‘You’re feathering your own nest, with that argument.’
    She lifted her chin slightly. ‘If you were a jockey in next week’s horse race, and you came to me and asked to know if your fortune was likely good—well, that would be a different story. If