"Ten o'clock, stranger, Fleurette Heller. Telephone appointment. Girl with a nice voice."
"Be sure and look at her," Granthope remarked; "I may want a tip."
"Ten-thirty, Mrs. Page."
Granthope smiled and Fancy smiled.
"Do you remember what I told her?"
Fancy looked puzzled. "What do you mean? About her husband?"
"No, not that. The last time she came I tried a psychological experiment with her. I told her that normally she was a quiet, restrained, modest, discreet woman, but that at times her emotional nature would get the better of her; that she couldn't help breaking out and would suddenly let go. I thought she was about due this week. There's been something doing and she wants to tell me about it to appease her conscience. Give them what they want, and anything goes!"
Fancy listened, frowning, the point of her pencil between her lips. "You don't need any of my tips on Mrs. Page," she said with sarcasm. "At eleven, Mr. Summer, whoever he is."
"I don't care, if he's got the price."
"It bores you to read for men, doesn't it, Frank? I wish you'd let me do it."