Fancy accepted the welcome, looking long into Clytie's eyes, as if she expected to find in them something of special significance. Her own were steady, and had in them an evidence of resolve.
"I've been hoping you'd come to see me, Miss Gray," Clytie began.
Fancy stopped on the threshold.
"Fancy Gray, please!" she corrected, with an elusive smile.
"Fancy Gray—I'm glad to be permitted to use such a lovely name."
"Make it Fancy, straight. Then I'll be more natural. I'm always stiff and stupid when people call me Miss Gray. I always feel as if they were talking about me behind my back." Fancy's smile broke out now, as if in spite of herself.
"I'd love to call you Fancy! It's good of you to let me!" Clytie answered.
Her smile was as delicious, in this gallant interchange. Fancy's smile seemed as much a part of her natural expression as the brightness of her open eyes; it was embracing, like a baby's. Clytie's had the effect of a particularly gracious favor, almost a condescension, a special gift of the moment.
Fancy stopped again at the entrance to the library.
"Say, this is awfully orderly," she said, "haven't you got some place that isn't so tidy and clean? I'm afraid I wouldn't be comfortable here, and I want to talk to you."