At high noon, after a climb up the hill and an hour of poetry, Fancy was crowned queen of Piedra Pinta, with pomp and circumstance. She was invested with a crown of bay leaves and, for a scepter, the camp poker was placed in her hand. Dougal, as her prime minister, waxed merry, while her loyal lieges passed before her to do her homage. She greeted them one by one: The Duke of Russian Hill, with his tribute of three square meals per week; Lord of the Barbary Coast; Elsie, Lady of Lime Point, Mistress of the Robes; Sir Maxim the Monster, Court Painter; Sir Starr of Tar Flat, Laureate; and Mabel the Fair, Marchioness of Mount Tamalpais, First Lady of the Bedchamber, to keep her warm.
She issued many titles after that, as her domain increased, and as "Fancy I," she always styled herself in signing her letters. Her royal edicts were not often slighted.
For she was gay and young, and she was bold and free. Life had scarcely touched her yet with care. This was her apotheosis. The scene went down in the annals of the Pintos and the tradition spread. Her reign was famous. Her accolade was a smile. Her homage was paid in kisses—and in tears.
Yet Fancy Gray was not a girl to commit herself to any one particular set. Her tastes were eclectic. She was essentially adventurous. It was her boast that she never made a promise and never broke one—that she never explained—that she liked everybody, and nobody. She guarded her independence jealously, restless at every restraint. With the friend of the moment she was everything. When he passed out of sight, she devoted an equal attention to the next comer, and she was faithful to both.
She was often seen with Granthope dining or at the theater. Mabel and Elsie whispered together, adding glances to smiles, and frowns to blushes, summing them up according to the feminine rules of psychological arithmetic. The men did not even wonder—it was none of their business, and was she not Fancy Gray? When they were seen together, they were conspicuously picturesque. Granthope had an air, Fancy had a manner, the two harmonized perfectly.
Mr. Gay P. Summer, meanwhile, had by no means given up the chase. He was not one to be easily snubbed, and the only effect of the slight put upon him by the Pintos was to make him seek after Fancy still more energetically, and while he paid court to her, to keep her away from the attractions of that engaging set. Fancy accepted his attentions with condescension. After all, a dinner was a dinner—her own way of putting it was that she always hated to refuse "free eggs."
He still tried his best to draw her out, but when he asked her about Granthope, she gave a passionate, indignant refutation of his innuendoes.
"I owe that man everything, everything!" she exclaimed. "He took me when I was walking the streets, hungry, without a cent, and he has been good to me ever since! He's all right! And any one who says anything against him is crossed off my list!"
This was at Zinkand's. The slur had been occasioned by the sight of Granthope at table with a lady whom Gay knew rather too much about. It happened that there was another group in the room that drew Fancy's roving eye and nimble comment. She asked about the man with the pointed beard.
"Oh, that's Blanchard Cayley—everybody knows him," Gay explained. "He's a rounder. I see him everywhere. No, I don't know him to speak to, but they say he's a clever chap. I wonder who that is with him, though? I've seen her before, somewhere."