"No, I can attend to that myself. I'll telephone for a doctor and have him fix me up. You must go now."
"All right. Just wait till I put on my jacket and do up my hair."
Walking off, proudly, she opened the door of the closet and stood before the mirror there, while he, a limp, relaxed figure in the arm-chair, watched her as she unbraided her hair and combed it out in a magnificent coppery cascade to her waist. Tossing her head, she said:
"Vixley's laying for you, Frank! You'd better watch out for him. It's something shady about the old man's past, I believe. Anyway, I hope you'll fool 'em, Frank!"
With this complication of his position, he bent his head on his hand as if he were weary. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "It's too much for me, I'm afraid."
"What's the matter?" said Fancy solicitously. "Didn't I work it right? Honest, Frank, I didn't give you away a bit—I didn't tell him a word. You know my work isn't lumpy—I just pumped him. I beat him at his own game, and it didn't taste so good, either. Oh, I'm so sorry if I did anything to hurt you. I'd die first!"
As he did not answer her she came over to him and knelt on the floor, seizing his hand. Her tears fell upon it.
"You've been mighty good to me, Frank, you sure have! You took me off the streets when I was starving. I don't know whatever would have become of me. I suppose I'd gone right down the line, if it hadn't been for you. You're the only friend I've got, and I only wish I could do something to prove how grateful I am. Honest, I thought I was helping you out when I kept Vixley here. You don't think—you don't think I like him—do you? Don't say that, Frank!"
She was speaking in gasps now; her tears were unrestrained. Her hand clutched his so fiercely that he could scarcely bear the pain. He did not dare to look at her.
"I've always been square with you, Frank, haven't I?"