"I believe I'm going to get the truth at last," Fancy murmured. "Oh, it takes a woman, don't it!" In spite of this jaunty speech the pink had grown to scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in a delighted, flattered embarrassment.
"Then, your mouth has a charming little dent at each corner, and your lips curve in a perfect bow, and the nick above is just deep and strong enough for a baby to want to put his little finger into. Your nose is fine and straight and delicate—I can see the light through the bridge of it, the skin is so transparent—like mother-o'-pearl. Your eyes are clear and child-like and the rarest, deepest, pellucid brown. There's a moist purple shadow above them, and a warmer brown tone below. Your lids crinkle and narrow your eyes like a kitten's. Your hands are as dewy-delicate as flowers—white above, faint rose in the palm, deepening almost to strawberry in the finger-tips."
Fancy had laid her head on her arm, upon the railing. When she at last lifted her eyes the tears trickled comically down her cheeks. "That's the first time a woman ever feazed me!" she said, snuffing, and feeling for her handkerchief. "I'll have to appoint you Court Flatterer!" She explained the sovereignty that she enjoyed amongst the Pintos. Clytie, amused, accepted the distinction conferred upon her.
Their talk ran on till the boat passed under the lee of Goat Island. It rose, a bare, bleak slope of hillside on the starboard side. Fancy watched the waters curdling below.
"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "It looks cold, don't it! I'd hate to be down there; it's so wet. Isn't it funny that suicides always jump overboard right opposite Goat Island? There seems to be some fascination about this place. And the bodies are never found. I suppose they drift out through the Gate. The tide runs awfully strong here, they say."
She removed her gaze with an effort, adding, "I hate to think of it! Let's come forward."
They rose and went to the space of deck below the pilot-house and stood by the rail. Already the tourists and emigrants were there, eager for a first glimpse of the city. San Francisco stretched before them, a long, pearl-gray peninsula, its profile undulating in a continuous series of hills. Along the water front was a mêlée of shipping; behind, the houses rose to the heaving, irregular sky-line where the blue was deep and cloudless. The streets showed as gashes, blocking the town off into parallel divisions. A few tall towers broke the monotony of the huddled, colorless buildings. They passed a ferry-boat bound for Oakland, and a foreign man-of-war lying at anchor, nosed by busy launches. The Piedmont rang down to half-speed, then the vibrations of the paddle wheels stopped as she shot into the slip. There was a surge of back-water, a rattling of chains and ratchets, the cables were fastened and the apron lowered. The crowd surged forward and poured off the boat. At the front of the Ferry Building Fancy stopped, offering her hand.
"Good-by," she said genially. "You've done me more good than a Picon punch. I'm going home to wear my looking-glass out."
"You'll never see half I do," Clytie replied, shaking her head.
"That's because I haven't got such fine eyes," countered Fancy.