As she spoke, her gaiety slowly oozed away, till she sat almost plaintively watching him. Then she smiled and shook her head slowly. "Don't get frightened, I won't do anything foolish." She sprang up and tossed her head. Then, turning to him, she said: "Say, Frank, do you know Blanchard Cayley?"
"Why, I've just heard of him, that's all. He's a friend of Miss Payson's."
"She isn't—fond of him, is she?" Fancy demanded.
"Oh, I hope not! Why?"
"Nothing. Only, I met him, one night, at Carminetti's. Gay had just thrown me down hard. He came round, afterward, and apologized." Fancy looked across the room abstractedly as she talked. Upon the wall were strung a collection of empty chianti bottles in their basket-work shells, a caricature by Maxim, a circus poster and other evidence of her recent conversion to the artistic life. She spoke with a queer introspective manner. "I had a queer feeling about Mr. Cayley. You know, for all I'm such a scatterbrain, I do like a man with a mind. I like to look up to a man. He's awfully well-read. Of course, he isn't as clever as you, but he sort of fascinates me—I don't know why. He interests me, although I can't understand half he says. I suppose he makes me forget. There's nothing like knowing how to forget. But you're sure Miss Payson isn't too fond of him?"
"I'd like to be surer," said Granthope. He, too, was looking fixedly across the room—at the mottoes and texts upon the wall, on the mantel, and over her bed—"Do it Now!" "Nothing Succeeds like Success"—and such platitudes as, printed in red and black, are sold at bookshops for the moral education of those unable to think for themselves.
Fancy slid gently off the bed, and dropped to the floor in front of him. Her hand stole fondly for his, and clasped it, petting it.
"How is she, Frank?"
He put his hand on her hair and smoothed it affectionately. "Fine, Fancy, fine."
"Oh—I hope it's all right, Frank."