"You leave me alone for that," Madam Spoll replied easily. "I guess I know how to jolly a good thing along. Has he got the money? That's all I want to know about him."
"He's got money all right. That's a cinch. I'm not in this thing for my health. What's more, he's got the writin' bug, and I can see a good graft in that."
"Well, I'll give it a try."
"No, you better keep your hands off that subject, Gertie. I can work that game better'n you. I got it all framed up how I can string him good. I'm goin' to make that a truly elegant work of art. All you got to do is to get him goin', and then steer him up against me."
The door-bell rang noisily up-stairs and Mr. Spoll's footsteps were heard going to answer the summons.
"I guess that's my cue," said Madam Spoll, smiling affably. "I wish I had more magnetism to-day." She shook her hands and snapped her fingers. "I can't stand so much of this as I used to. I can remember when I could get a name every time without fishing for it. But what I've lost in one way I have learned in another. I'm going to give him a run for his money, and don't you forget it."
Vixley smiled and rubbed his hands. "Go in and win, Gert. I guess I'll take a nap here on the lounge while I'm waitin' for you, and see if the Doc doesn't come in."
"All right," she replied; then marched up-stairs and went into action.
The upper parlor, where she received her patrons for private sittings, was a large room separated from the back part of the house by black walnut double doors. Upon the high-studded walls were draperies of striped oriental stuffs, caught up with tacks and enlivened by colored casts of turbaned Turks' heads, most of which were chipped on cheek and on chin, showing irregular patches of white plaster. Upon the mantel chaos reigned, embodied in a mass of minor decorations of all sorts, such as are affected by those who deem that space is only something to be as closely filled as possible. The furniture was cheaply elaborate and formally arranged, running chiefly to purple stamped plush and heavy woolen fringe. The silk curtains in the windows were severely arranged in multitudinous little pleats, fan shaped, drawn in with a pink ribbon at the center. There was scarcely a thing in the room, from the fret-sawed walnut whatnot in the corner to the painted tapestry Romeo upon the double doors, that an artist would not writhe at and turn backward. A little ineffective bamboo table in the center was made a feature of the place, but supported its function with triviality.
Mr. Payson had just entered, cold and blue from the harsh air outside. He bowed to the seeress.