"You're so pretty, Miss Payson! You're four times and a half as pretty as I am!"
Clytie ventured to touch her little finger to the dent in Fancy's upper lip. Fancy retreated a step. "My dear," Clytie asserted, "if I had that, I'd be sure that men would be crazy for me till I was seventy years old!"
Fancy shook her head. "I guess I can't beat that. That's what Gay calls 'the pink penultimate.' And the worst of it is, I suppose it's true! But I'll never be seventy if I can help it." She turned away, suddenly grown serious. The room grew dark. It was as if Fancy's mood had turned off the sunshine.
"What are you doing, now?" Clytie asked.
"Oh, just drifting." Fancy's voice was not hopeful.
Clytie took her hand. "Why don't you come here and stay with me for a while? I'd love to have you."
Fancy gently released her fingers in Clytie's and did not look at her.
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't be quite so kind to me, Miss Payson; I can't stand it!" Her mouth trembled; her gaze was serious.
"But it would be so kind of you to come!" Clytie urged.
Fancy smiled wanly. "I can't do it, Miss Payson, I won't explain. I never explain. It bores me. But I simply can't."