"You're too pretty—that's the trouble!" he answered, smiling, as at a familiar trait.
"No, but really—do you honestly think so?" Her face had again grown plaintive.
"Yes, Fancy. Far be it from me to flatter or cajole with the compliments of a five-dollar reading, but as between friends, and with my hand on my heart, I assert that you are beautiful."
"I don't mean that at all," said Fancy. "I want to be pretty. That's what men like—pretty girls. Beautiful women never get anywhere except into the divorce courts. Do say I'm pretty!"
"Fancy, you know I'm a connoisseur of women. You are actually and absolutely pretty."
"Well, that's a great relief, if I can only believe you. I have to hear it once a day, at least, to keep up my courage. Now that's settled, let's go to work."
He went back to the fireplace and yawned. "All right. What's doing to-day?"
"Full up, except from eleven to twelve."
"Who are they?"
Fancy jauntily flipped open the appointment book and ran her forefinger down the page.