She had met
an extraordinary woman once, in London, where anyone, however
extraordinary, is possible, and this being, so she told Larry, had
gazed at her, raptly, had then assured her that she saw her aura (blue
shot with gold) and had told her that she had a very aged soul..
"I felt as if I were an old boot!" said Christian.
"Old idiot herself!" Larry said hotly; "what else did she pretend to
know about you?"
"She said she had met me before, in a previous incarnation. She
couldn't believe that I didn't remember her. But I couldn't."
"I'm glad you couldn't," said Larry, still angry. "I won't have you
remembering lives that I wasn't in! Anyhow, I don't believe they were
half as good as this one. I call this a thundering good life. _I_
don't want to have been Julius Caesar or Queen Anne."
"Oh, I daresay you weren't," said Christian, consolingly; "you don't
remind me of either of them. What would be more to the point would be
to know what you were going to be. In this life, I mean."
"Oh, a painter first," said Larry, responding with alacrity, as do
most people, to the stimulus of discussing himself; "but not
exclusively. I shouldn't mind having the hounds for a bit, and I
should like to travel--the gorgeous East, you know--that sort of
thing. And I must say," he hesitated, "I'm rather keen to have a shot
at politics.
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