As she spoke, the telephone bell on the desk rang, and she took up the receiver, drooping her head coquettishly.
"Yes?" she said dreamily, her eyes on Granthope, who had lighted a cigarette.
"Yes, half-past eleven o'clock, if that would be convenient. What name, please? ... No, any name will do..... Miss Smith? All right—good-by."
She entered the appointment in her book, and then remarked decidedly, "She's pretty!"
"No objections; they're my specialty," Granthope replied; "only I doubt it."
"Never failed yet," said Fancy.
Granthope looked at his watch, then passed through a red anteroom to his studio beyond. Fancy began to draw little squares and circles and fuzzy heads of men with mustaches upon a sheet of paper. In a few moments the palmist returned, his morning coat replaced by a black velvet jacket tight-fitting and buttoned close.
"Oh, Fancy, take a few notes, please; you didn't get that last one yesterday, I believe."
She reached for a lacquered tin box, containing a card catalogue, withdrew a blank slip and dipped her pen in the ink. Then, as he stopped to think, she remarked:
"I don't see why you go to all this trouble, Frank. Nobody else does. You've a good enough memory, and I think it's silly. I feel as if I were a bookkeeper in a business house."