The Greater Trumps by Charles Williams

inquired. “Fools and tigers seem a funny conjunction.”
    â€œNobody knows about the Fool,” Aaron burst in. “Unless the cards explain it.”
    Mr. Coningsby was about to speak again when Sybil forestalled him.
    â€œI can’t see this central figure,” she said. “Where is it exactly, Mr. Lee?”
    Aaron, Henry, and her brother all pointed to it, and all with very different accents said, “There.” Sybil stepped slightly forward, then to one side; she moved her head to different angles, and then said apologetically, “You’ll all think me frightfully silly, but I can’t see any figure in the middle.”
    â€œReally, Sybil!” her brother said. “There!”
    â€œBut, my dear, it isn’t there,” she said. “At least, so far as I can possibly see. I’m sorry to be so stupid, Mr. Lee, because it’s all quite the loveliest thing I ever saw in the whole of my life. It’s perfectly wonderful and beautiful. And I just want, if I can, to see where you say this particular figure is.”
    Henry leaned forward suddenly. Nancy put her left hand up to where his lay on her shoulder. “Darling,” she said, “please! You’re hurting me.” He took no notice; he did not apparently hear her. He was looking with intense eagerness from Sybil to the golden images and back. “Miss Coningsby,” he said, reverting unconsciously to his earlier habit of address, “can you see the Fool and his tiger at all?”
    She surveyed the table carefully. “Yes,” she said at last, “there—no, there—no—it’s moving so quickly I can hardly see it—there—ah, it’s gone again. Surely that’s it, dancing with the rest; it seems as if it were always arranging itself in some place which was empty for it.”
    Nancy took hold of Henry’s wrist and pulled it; tears of pain were in her eyes, but she smiled at him. “Darling, must you squeeze my shoulder quite so hard?” she said.
    Blankly he looked at her; automatically he let go, and though in a moment she put her own hand into the crook of his arm he did not seem to notice it. His whole attention was given to Sybil. “You can see it moving?” he uttered.
    On the other side, Aaron was trembling and putting his fingers to his mouth as if to control it and them. Sybil, gazing at the table, did not see him. “But it seems so,” she said. “Or am I just distracted?”
    Henry made a great effort. He turned to Nancy. “Can you see it?” he asked.
    â€œIt looks to me to be in the center,” she said, “and it doesn’t seem to be moving—not exactly moving.”
    â€œWhat do you mean—not exactly moving?” Henry asked, almost harshly.
    â€œIt isn’t moving at all,” said Mr. Coningsby. “It’s capitally made, though; the tiger’s quite lifelike. So’s the Fool,” he added handsomely.
    â€œI suppose I meant not moving,” Nancy said. “In a way I feel as if I expected it to. But it isn’t.”
    â€œWhy should you expect it to?” Henry asked.
    â€œI can’t think,” Nancy admitted. “Perhaps it was Aunt Sybil saying it was that made me think it ought to be.”
    â€œWell,” Sybil said, “there we are! If you all agree that it’s not moving, I expect it isn’t. Perhaps my eyes have got St. Vitus’ dance or something. But it certainly seems to me to be dancing everywhere.”
    There was a short and profound silence, broken at last by Nancy. “What did you mean about fortune-telling?” she said, addressing ostensibly Mr. Lee, but in fact Henry.
    Both of them came jerkily back to consciousness of her. But the old man was past speech; he could only look at his grandson. For a moment Henry didn’t seem to know what to say. But Nancy’s eager and devoted eyes were full on him, and