"No," she said, "I am not really superstitious; I'm not at all sure that
the money is any good, or the hat, but of course everyone knows it's
unlucky to see it through glass."
"Seen through glass," I began, "a hat presents a gloss which on closer
inspection--"
"No, no, not a hat, the moon, of course. And you might as well pretend
that it's lucky to upset the salt, or to kill a spider, especially on a
Tuesday, or on your hat."
"Hats," I began again, "certainly seem to--"
"It's not the hat," she answered, pulling up the wild thyme and crushing
it in her hands, "you know very well it's the spider. Doesn't that smell
sweet?"
She held out the double handful of crushed sun-dried thyme, and as I
bent my face over the cup made by her two curved hands, I was
constrained to admit that the fragrance was delicious.
"Intoxicating even," I added.
"Not that. White lilies intoxicate you, so does mock-orange; and white
may too, only it's unlucky to bring it into the house."