The Heart Line 25

The Heart Line 25

Fancy talked little. The crowd, the lights, the _camaraderie_

hypnotized her. She watched first one and then another group, picking

out, for Gay’s edification, the prettiest girl and the handsomest man in

the room. She waved her hand slyly at the collarless soloist and

applauded two darkies who came in from outside to make a hideous clamor

with banjos. As she waited to be served, she nibbled at the dry French

bread and drank of the sour claret, watching over the top of her glass,

losing nothing.

 

In the middle of the room, Blanchard Cayley sat with three ladies. One

of them Fancy recognized as Miss Payson. Fancy’s eyebrows rose slightly

at seeing her, and a smile and a nod were cordially exchanged. The

others Fancy did not know. They were both pretty women, well-dressed,

with evident signs of breeding, and, as the urn waxed freer, apparently

not a little embarrassed at being seen in such a place. Miss Payson

showed no such feeling in her demeanor, however much she may have been

amused or surprised at the spirit of the place. Blanchard Cayley divided

his attentions equitably amongst them, till, looking across the room, he

caught Fancy’s errant glance. He smiled at her openly as if challenging

her roguery.

 

She boldly returned the greeting. Gay caught the glance that was

exchanged.

 

"See here, Fancy," he protested, "none of that now! He’s got all he can

do to attend to his own table. I’ll attend to this one, myself."

 

Now, this was scarcely the way to treat a girl like Fancy Gray. At her

first opportunity, she sent another smile in Cayley’s direction. It was

divided, this time, by members of his own party and the women began to

buzz together. Gay was annoyed.

 

"There’s something I like about that man," Fancy remarked presently.

"What’d you say his name was? That’s the one we saw at Zinkand’s, wasn’t

it?"

 

"There’s something I don’t like about him. He’d better mind his own

business," Gay growled, now thoroughly provoked.

 

"You can’t blame any one for noticing _me_, can you, Gay?" Her tone was

honey-sweet.

 

"I can blame you for flirting across the room when you’re here with me!"

he replied fiercely.

 

Fancy opened her eyes very wide. "Indeed?" she said with a sarcastic

emphasis.

 

"That’s right," he affirmed.

 

In answer, she cast another languishing glance toward Cayley. Cayley,

despite Clytie’s entreating hand upon his arm, sent back an unequivocal

reply.

 

"Well," said Gay, rising sullenly, "I guess it’s up to me to leave!" He

reached for his hat.

 

"Oh, Gay!" she protested in alarm, "you’re not going to throw me down

before this whole crowd, are you?" Already their colloquy had attracted

the attention of the near-by tables.

 

He hesitated a moment. "Unless you behave yourself," he said finally.

His tone of ownership decided her.

 

"Run along, then!" She gave him a smile of limpid simplicity, but her

jaws were set determinedly. "I expect I can get some one to take care

of me. Don’t mind me!"

 

Their discussion had not been unnoticed at Mr. Cayley’s table. Clytie

was watching the pair interestedly, as if reading the motions of their

lips. Fancy caught her eye and flushed a little.

 

Gay’s brows gathered together in a sullen look as he crowded his hat

upon his head savagely. He turned with a last retort:

 

"You’ll be sorry you threw me down, Fancy Gray! You want too many men on

the string at once!"

 

He turned and left her, passing sulkily along the passages between the

tables with his hat on his head, till he came to the cashier, where he

paid the bill for two dinners with lordly chivalry. Then, without

looking back, he opened the door of the restaurant and went out.

 

An instant after, Fancy was on her feet. Gay’s going had already made

her conspicuous and her flush grew deeper. Cayley watched her without

smiling, now, waiting to see what she would do. Beside him, Clytie

Payson sat watching, her lips slightly parted, her nostrils dilated,

absorbed, seeming to understand the situation perfectly, her eyes gazing

at Fancy as if to convey her sympathy. Fancy looked and saw her there,

and the sight steadied her. With all her customary nonchalance, with

all that jovial, compelling air of optimism which she usually radiated,

as if she were quite sure of her reception and came as an expected

guest, she sauntered carelessly over to the central table.

 

Her smile was dazzling as it swept about the board, meeting the eyes of

each of the women in turn. One by one it subjugated them. They even

returned it with trepidation, not too embarrassed to be keenly

expectant, waiting for the outcome. But it was for Clytie that Fancy

Gray reserved her warmest, deepest look. In that glance she threw

herself upon Miss Payson’s mercy, and appealed to the innate chivalry of

woman to woman, to the bond of sex—a sentiment in finer women more

potent than jealousy.

 

Even before she spoke Clytie had arisen and stretched out her hand. In

a flash she had accepted what had run counter to all her experience, and

played up to Fancy’s audacity with a spirit that ignored the crowd, the

eyes, the whispers.

 

Who, indeed, could resist Fancy Gray in such a fantastic, tiptoe mood?

Her act, audacious, even impertinent, was so delicately achieved, she

was so sure of herself and her own charm that it was dramatic, poetic in

its confidence, picturesque. But no one could have equalled Clytie as

she arose to meet such bravado, when she shook off her reserves and took

her hand at such a psychological game. Not even Fancy Gray, with all

her superb poise. On Fancy’s cheek the color deepened—it was she who

blushed so furiously, now, not Clytie. In that flush she confessed

herself beaten at her own game.

 

"How do you do?" Clytie was saying. "We’ve been wishing all the evening

that we could have you with us. Do sit down, here, beside me—we’ll make

room for you. I want you to meet Miss Gray, Mrs. Maxwell."

 

Something in the graciousness of her manner drew the other women up to

her chivalrous level. Mrs. Maxwell bowed, smiled, too, with a word of

welcome, so did Miss Dean as she was introduced. Fancy beamed.

Meanwhile Cayley had arisen. He was the most perturbed of all. He

offered his chair.

 

"You see what you’ve done, Mr. Cayley," said Fancy. "I’ve just been

jilted for the first time in my life, and it was all your fault. I’m

afraid I shall have to butt in and ask you to protect me!"

 

It was not Fancy but Clytie who had, apparently, most surprised him. He

gave a questioning look at her as he replied, not a little confused:

 

"Won’t you sit down here in my place? There’s plenty of room. I’ll get

another chair—or," he stole another glance at Clytie, "I’ll let you have

half of mine!"

 

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

 

Clytie smiled encouragingly. "I’ll divide mine with you, too, if you

like."

 

"You’re a gentleman! I’d much rather sit with you, Miss Payson; thank

you!" Then she looked at Clytie fondly. "I _thought_ I was right about

you! You _are_ a thoroughbred, aren’t you?"

 

"We’re educating Mr. Cayley, my dear." Clytie gave him a bright smile.

"He has a few things yet to learn about women."

 

"I plead guilty," said Cayley, watching the two with curiosity.

 

"Miss Gray and I are disciples of the same school. She gave me the

password." Clytie was fairly superb—she even outshone Fancy—she was

regal.

 

Fancy laughed. "You’re the only one who knows it, that _I_ ever met,

though."

 

"Ah," said Clytie, "then that’s the only way I can beat you—I believe

many women are initiated."

 

Fancy clapped her hands softly in pantomime. Then she turned to Mrs.

Maxwell and the others. "I hope I’m not out of the frying-pan into the

fire," she said. "Please let me down easy, ladies. If you don’t make me

feel at home pretty quick, I’ll be up against it I You don’t really have

to _know_ me, you know. Only it looked to me like when he had three

such pretty women to take care of one more ought to be easy enough."

 

"We _were_ three pretty women before, perhaps, my dear, but now I’m

afraid we’re only one!" said Clytie. She herself, kindled with the

spirit of adventure, and so adequately welcoming it, was irresistible.

 

Fancy blew a pretty kiss at her. "No man would know enough to say

anything as nice as that, would he? But I’m afraid I can’t trot in your

class, Miss Payson. Why, every man in the room has been watching you

all the evening. I really ought to sit beside Mrs. Maxwell, though, to

show her off. It takes these brunettes to make me look outclassed,

doesn’t it? I used to be a brunette myself, but I reformed. Mr.

Cayley, you may hold me on, if you like. And remember, when I kick you

under the table it’s a hint for you to say something about my hands."

She laid them on the table-cloth ingenuously.

 

Clytie took one up and showed it to Mrs. Maxwell. "Did you ever see a prettier wrist than that?" she said.