"It's queer—that name is somehow familiar; I've heard of it somewhere. Oliver Payson—Oliver Payson."
"Funny how you never can think of a thing when you want to," said Fancy, sharpening her pencil.
"I know something about Oliver Payson," Granthope insisted. "But it's no use, I can't get it. Perhaps it will come to me."
"You never know what you can do till you stop trying," Fancy offered sagely.
Granthope spoke abstractedly, gazing at the ceiling. "It's something about a picture, it seems to me."
He walked into his studio, still puzzling with blurred memories. Fancy took up The Second Wife.
At ten o'clock the door opened, and Fancy's hand flew to her back hair. A girl of perhaps twenty years with intense eyes entered timidly. Her hair was distracted by the wind and her color was high, increasing the charm of her pretty, earnest, finely freckled face. She wore a jacket a little too small for her, with frayed cuffs. Her shoes were badly worn; her hat was cheap, but effective.
"I called to see Mr. Granthope; I think I have an appointment at ten," she said.
"Miss Heller?" Fancy asked. The girl nodded. Fancy took inventory of the girl's points, looking her up and down before she replied, "All right; just be seated for a moment, please."
She walked to the studio and met Granthope coming out. They spoke in whispers.