invited her to be seated and the nonchalant manner in which, after that, she gazed out upon Geary Street.
Mrs. Page, however, would be loquacious.
"Shall I have to wait long?" she asked. "I have an engagement at eleven and I simply must see Mr. Granthope first! It's very important."
"I don't know," said Fancy coolly. "It depends upon whether he has an interesting sitter or not. Sometimes he's an hour, and sometimes he's only fifteen minutes." She spoke with a slightly stinging emphasis, examining, meanwhile, the spots on her own finger-nails.
"Oh," said Mrs. Page, and it was evident that the remark gave her an idea as to her own personal powers of attraction. "I thought Mr. Granthope treated all his patrons alike."
"Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn't," was Fancy's cryptic retort. She watched the effect under drooped lashes.
The effect was to make Mrs. Page squirm uneasily, as if she didn't know whether she had been hit or not. She took refuge in the remark: "Well, I hope he will give me a good reading this time."
"It all depends on what's in your hand," Fancy followed her up, smiling amiably.
Mrs. Page minced and simpered: "Do you know, somehow I hate to have him look at my hand, after what he said before. He told me such dreadful things, I'm afraid he'll discover more."
"Why do you give him a chance, then?" said Fancy coldly.
"Oh, I hope he'll find something better, this time!"
"Weren't you satisfied with what he gave you?" Fancy asked. "I have found Mr. Granthope usually strikes it about right."
"Oh, of course, I'm satisfied," Mrs. Page admitted. "In fact, I trust him so implicitly that I have acted on his advice. But it's rather dreadful to know the truth, don't you think?"
Fancy nodded her head soberly. "Sometimes it is." She accented the adverb mischievously.
"Oh, I don't mean what you mean at all!"
"I know. You mean it's dreadful to have other people know the truth?"
"No; but I can't help my character, can I? It's not my fault if I have faults. It's all written in my palm and I can't alter it. Only, I mean it's awful to know exactly what's going to happen and not be able to prevent it."
"It's worse not to want to." Fancy waved her hand to some one in the street.
Mrs. Page withdrew from the conversation, routed, and devoted herself to a study of the Chinese masks, casting an occasional impatient glance into the anteroom. Fancy polished her rings with her handkerchief.
Granthope's voice was now heard, talking pleasantly with Fleurette, who was smiling, as he had promised. As she left, flushed and happy, Granthope greeted Mrs. Page, and escorted her, bubbling with talk, into the studio. The door closed upon a pervading odor of sandalwood, Mrs. Page's legacy to Fancy, who sniffed at it scornfully.
Many cable-cars had passed without Fancy's having recognized any one worth bowing to, before the next client appeared; but, at that visitor's entry, she became a different creature. Her eyes never really left him, although she seemed, as he waited, to be busy about many things.
He was a smart young man, a sort of a bank-clerk person, dressed neatly, with evidence of considerable premeditation. His hair was parted in the middle, his face was cleanly shaven. His sparkling, laughing eyes, devilishly audacious, his pink cheeks and his cool self-assured manner gave him an appearance of juvenile, immaculate freshness, which rendered an acquaintance with such a San Francisco girl as Fancy Gray, easy and agreeable. He laid his hat and stick against his hip jauntily, and asked:
"Could I get a reading from Mr. Granthope without waiting all day for it?" As he spoke he loosed a frivolous, engaging glance at her.
"He'll be out in just a moment," Fancy replied with more interest than she had heretofore shown. "Won't you sit down and wait, please?"
He withdrew his eyes long enough to gallop round the room with them, but they returned to her like horses making for a stable. He took a seat, pulled up his trousers over his knees, drew down his cuffs, felt the knot in his tie and smoothed his hair, all with the quick, accurate motion due to long habit. "Horrible weather," he volunteered debonairly.
"It's something fierce, isn't it?" said Fancy, opening and shutting drawers, searching for nothing. "It gets on my nerves. I wish we'd have one good warm day for a change."
"Been out to the beach lately?" he asked, eying her with undisguised approval. He breathed on the crown of his derby hat and then smelt of it.
"No," she replied. "I don't have much time to myself. I hate to go alone, anyway." Fancy looked aimlessly into the top drawer of her desk.
"That's too bad! But I shouldn't think you'd ever have to go alone. You don't look it."
"Really?" Fancy's tone was arch.
"That's right! I know some one who'd be willing to chase out there with you at the drop of the hat."
Fancy, appearing to feel that the acquaintance was making too rapid progress, said, "I don't care much for the beach; it's too crowded."
"That depends upon when you go. I've got a car out there where we could get lost easy enough. Then you can have a quiet little dinner at the Cliff House almost any night."
"Can you? I never tried it."
"It's time you did. Suppose you try it with me?"
Fancy opened her eyes very wide at him and let him have the full benefit of her stare. "Isn't this rather sudden? You're rushing it a little too fast, seems to me."
"Not for me. I'm sorry you can't keep up. You don't look slow."
Fancy turned to her engagement book.
"You must have known some pretty easy ones," she said sarcastically.
The snub did not silence him for long. He recrossed his legs, drummed on the brim of his hat, and began:
"Say, did you ever go to Carminetti's?"
"No, where is it?"
"Down on Davis Street. They have a pretty lively time there on Sunday nights. Everybody goes, you know—gay old crowd. They sing and everything. It's the only really Bohemian place in town now."
"I'm never hungry on Sundays," Fancy said coolly.
"Nor thirsty, either?"
"Sir?" she said in mock reproof, and then burst into a laugh.
"Say, you scared me all right, that time!"
"You don't look like you would be scared easy. I guess it's kind of hard to call you down."
He folded his arms and squared his shoulders. "I don't know," he said. "I don't seem to make much of a hit with you!"
"Oh, you may improve!"
"Upon acquaintance?"
"Perhaps. You're not in a hurry, are you?"
"That's what I am!" He went at her now with more vigor. "I say, would you mind telling me your name? Here's my card."
He rose, and, walking over to the desk, laid down a card upon which was printed, "Mr. Gay P. Summer." Fancy examined it deliberately. Then she looked up and said:
"My name is Miss Gray, if you must know. What are you going to do about it?"
"I'll show you!" he laughed, drawing nearer. What might possibly have happened (for things do happen in San Francisco) was interrupted by sounds predicting Mrs. Page's return.
"Say, Miss Gray, I'll ring you up later and make a date," he said under his breath. Then he turned to Mrs. Page and stared her out of the room with undisguised curiosity.
"You can see Mr. Granthope now," said