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| FRANCIS GRANTHOPE, PALMIST |
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Inside, where Fancy sat daily from ten to four, the apartment was walled and carpeted in red. Upon the walls, painted wooden Chinese grotesque masks, grinning or scowling against the fire-cracker paper, hung, at intervals, from black stained woodwork. Between the two windows was a plaster column bearing the winged head of Hypnos; at the other end of the room was a row of casts of hands hanging on hooks against a black panel. The desk in the corner was Fancy's station, and here she murmured into the telephone, scribbled appointments in a blank-book, read The Second Wife, gazed out into the green square, or manicured her nails—according as the waiting-room chairs were empty, or occupied with men or with women. Whatever company she had, she was never careless of the light upon her or the condition of her tinted hair.

It was a cool, blustering afternoon in August. San Francisco was at its worst phase. The wind was high and harsh, harassing the city with its burden of dust. Over the mountains, on the Marin shore, a high fog hung, its advance guard scudding in through the Golden Gate, piling over the hills by the Twin Peaks and preparing its line of battle for a general assault upon the peninsula at nightfall. In the streets men and women clung to their hats savagely as they passed gusty corners, and coat collars were turned up against the raw air. Summer had, so far, spent its effort in four violently hot days, when the humid atmosphere made the temperature unbearable. Now the weather had flung back to an extreme as unpleasant; open fires were in order. There was one now burning in Granthope's reception-room, to which Fancy Gray made frequent excursions. She was there, making a picture of herself beside the hearth, having resolutely held her pose for some time in anticipation of his coming, when Francis Granthope arrived.

Tall, erect and able-bodied, with the physique of an athlete, and a strong, leonine head covered with crisp, waving, black hair, Francis Granthope had the complement of the actor's type of looks; but his alertness of carriage and his swift, searching glance distinguished him from the professional male beauty. Fine eyes of deep, rich blue, fine teeth often exposed in compelling smiles, a resolute mouth and a firm, deeply cleft chin he had; and all these attractions were set off by his precise dress—gloves, bell-tailed overcoat, sharply creased trousers, varnished boots and silk hat. A short mustache, curling upward slightly at the ends, and a small, triangular tuft of hair on his lower lip gave him a somewhat foreign aspect. He had an air, a manner, that kept up the illusion. Men would perhaps have distrusted him as too obviously handsome; women would talk about him as soon as he had left the room. Stage managers would have complimented his "presence"; children would have watched him, fascinated, reserving their judgment. He seemed to fill the room with electricity.

He sent a smile to Fancy, half of welcome, half of amusement at her picturesque posture, and, with cordial "Good morning!" in a mellow barytone, removed his overcoat and hat, putting them into a closet near the hall door. He reappeared in morning coat, white waistcoat and pin-checked trousers, with a red carnation in his buttonhole. He held his hands for a moment before the fire, then looked indulgently at his blithe assistant.

Now, one of Fancy's charms was a slender, pointed tongue. This she was wont to exhibit, on occasion, by sticking it out of her mouth coquettishly, and shaking it saucily in the direction of her nostrils—a joyous exploit which was vouchsafed only upon rare and intimate occasions. This, now, she did, tilting her head backward to give piquancy to the performance.

Granthope laughed, and went over to where she sat.

"You're a saucy bird, Fancy," he commented, leaning over her, both hands upon the desk. "Do you know I rather like you!"

Her face grew drolly sober; her whimsical eyebrows lifted.

"I don't know as I blame you," she replied. "You always did have good taste, though."