The Heart Line 26

The Heart Line 26

"It’s charming! I’m afraid she’d never be able to wear _my_ gloves."

 

Fancy smiled good-temperedly. "That second finger is supposed to be

perfect," she said, looking at it reflectively.

 

"It’s queer that the fourth one hasn’t a diamond on it," Mrs. Maxwell

suggested amiably.

 

"It’s only because I hate to fry my own eggs. I never could learn to

play on the cook-stove."

 

"My dear, you’ll never have to do that," said Clytie. "No man would be

brute enough to endanger such a complexion as you have!"

 

Fancy rubbed her cheek. "Good enough to raise a blush on. Has it worn

off yet? I wish you could make me do it again; I’d rather wear a good

No. 5 blush than a silk-lined skirt."

 

The third lady at the table was thin and dark, a piquante,

sharp-featured girl, with a dancing devil in her eyes. She had been

watching Fancy with an amused smile. "I thought I’d seen you before,"

she said. "Now I remember. You’re the young lady at Granthope’s,

aren’t you?"

 

"Yes, that’s my tag. I suppose I am entered for a regular blue-ribbon

freak. But I’ve seen you, too, Miss Dean, once or twice, haven’t I?"

 

Miss Dean hastened to say, "Mr. Granthope’s a wonderful palmist, isn’t

he? He has told me some extraordinary things about myself." She held

out her hand. "Do tell me what you think about my palm, please!"

 

But Fancy refused. "Oh, I don’t want to make enemies, just as we’ve

begun to break the ice. Every one would be jealous of the other, if I

told you what I saw. Besides, I ought to be drumming up more trade for

Mr. Granthope."

 

"How long have you been with him?" Cayley asked.

 

"Oh, about five years."

 

Clytie bit her lip. Granthope himself had said two.

 

"He has been fortunate to have such an able assistant as you," she said.

 

"Oh, Frank’s been mighty good to me. I owe him everything." Fancy said

it almost aggressively.

 

Cayley caught Clytie’s eye, and he smiled.

 

"Well, Blanchard," she said, disregarding his hint, "am I in your list

of Improbabilities now?"

 

"You’re easily first! You certainly have surprised me."

 

Heretofore Mrs. Maxwell, as chaperon of the party, had been the star,

but now Clytie, with her intuitive grip on this human complication,

established Fancy as the guest of honor. She drank Fancy’s health, and

Fancy’s smile became more opulent and irresistible. She kept Fancy’s

quick retorts going like fire-crackers, she manipulated the conversation

so that it came back to Fancy at each digression. She put Fancy Gray in

the center of the stage and kept her there in the calcium till her

buoyant spirits soared.

 

"Drink with Fancy!" cried Fancy Gray, and the company, Mrs. Maxwell

included, did her honor. "Drink with Fancy," she pleaded again, with a

pretty, infantile pout, and Clytie knocked glasses with her every time.

"Drink with Fancy," she repeated, and Cayley drew closer. It did not,

apparently, daunt Clytie. She had accepted Fancy Gray as Fancy Gray had

accepted her, and she did not withdraw an inch from her position. The

talk ran on, with Fancy always the center of interest. Her sallies were

original, brisk, and often witty. Fancy’s brain grew more agile and

more bold. Also, her glances played more softly upon Blanchard Cayley.

He made the most of them, with an eye on Clytie, awaiting her look of

protest. But it did not come.

 

About them the revelry still continued amidst the clattering of knives

and forks and dishes. Course after course had been brought on and

removed by the hurrying, overworked waiters. Once, a madcap couple

arose to dance a cake-walk up and down between the tables. Of the group

of eight singers in the corner, three had fallen into a mild stupor,

three were affectionately maudlin; two, still mirthful, sang noisily,

pounding upon the table.

 

By twos and threes, now, parties began to leave.

 

There was a popular song swinging through the room, accented by tinkling

glasses, when Fancy reached out her left hand, and took Clytie’s.

 

"I must be going, now; good night."

 

Clytie held the hand. "Oh, must you? Wait and let us put you on your

car, anyway!"

 

"No, I’ll drift along. I can take care of myself, all right."

 

She stopped, and, with her head slightly tilted to one side, looked

Clytie in the eyes.

 

"What did you go to Granthope’s for?" she asked.

 

Clytie began to color, faintly. She seemed, at first, at a loss to know

how to reply.

 

Fancy prompted her. "For a reading, of course—but what else?"

 

"I don’t know," said Clytie seriously. "Really I don’t."

 

"That’s what I thought!" said Fancy. Then her troubled brow cleared,

and she turned to Cayley.

 

"I must say ’fare-thee-well, my Clementine,’" she said. "You certainly

came to the scratch nobly. I hope it wasn’t all Miss Payson’s

prompting, though!"

 

"Next time I hope I’ll be able to bring you," he answered. "I’m sorry I

can’t take you home now."

 

"Who said I was going home?" she smiled. Then she looked at him, too,

and spoke to him with a variation of the quizzical tone she had used

toward Clytie. "I don’t know what there is about you that makes such a

hit with me—what is it?"

 

"The dagoes say I have the evil eye," he replied.

 

She laughed. "That’s it! I _thought_ it was something nice!"

 

Then she rose and bowed debonairly to Mrs. Maxwell and Miss Dean. "Good

night, ladies, this is where I disappear. I’m afraid you’ve impregnated

me with social aspirations. Watch for me at the Fortnightly!"

 

The collarless youth stretched a glass toward her in salutation and

sang: "Good-by, Dolly Gray!" There was a burst of laughter that drew

all eyes to Fancy Gray.

 

Cayley held her coat for her, and as she turned to him with thanks, a

sudden mad impulse stirred her; she audaciously put up her lips to be

kissed. He did not fail her. The ladies at the table looked on,

catching breath, stopping their talk. A waiter, passing, stood

transfixed. Every one watched. Then a cheer broke out and a clapping

of hands all over the restaurant.

 

Fancy Gray bowed to her audience with dignity, as if she were on the

stage. Then, with a comprehensive nod to her entertainers, she passed

demurely down the aisle between the tables. Every eye followed her.

 

At the counter she turned her head to see Blanchard Cayley still

standing by his place. She came hurriedly back as if drawn by some

magic spell, blushing hotly, with a strange look in her eyes. She

looked up at him as a little girl might look up at her father. The room

was hushed. It was too much for that audience to comprehend. The act

had almost lost its effrontery; the audacity had become, somehow,

pathos.

 

Fancy walked like a somnambulist, her eyes wide open, staring at

Blanchard. He had turned paler, but stood still, with his gaze fastened

upon her, reveling, characteristically, in a new sensation. The ladies

in his party did not speak. Nobody spoke. The room was like a

well-governed school at study hour, every eye fixed upon Fancy Gray.

Whatever secret emotion it was that drew her back, it was for its moment

compelling, casting out every trace of self-consciousness. She seemed to

show her naked soul. She reached him, and again he put his arms about

her and kissed her full on the lips. Again the tumult broke forth.

 

In that din and confusion she slipped back to the door. There was

another hush. Then the crowd gasped audibly and tongues were loosened

in a babel of exclamations. With a cry, some one pointed to the window.

There stood Fancy Gray, pressing through the glass, histrionically, one

last kiss to Cayley—and disappeared into the night. Half a dozen men

jumped up to follow her, and turned back to account for a new silence

that had abruptly fallen on the room.

 

Blanchard Cayley was still standing. He had snatched a wine-glass from

the table, and now, with a silencing gesture, he held it above his head.

He was perfectly calm, he had lost nothing of his usual elegance of

manner.

 

"I don’t know who she is, but here’s to her!" he called out to the

roomful of listeners. "Bottoms-up, everybody!"

 

He drank off his toast. Glasses were raised all over the room. Men

sprang upon their chairs, put one foot on the table and drank Fancy

Gray’s health. Then the crowd yelled again.

 

In the confusion Mrs. Maxwell leaned to Clytie. "I don’t know, my dear,

whether I’ll dare to chaperon you _here_ again!" She herself was as

excited as any one there.

 

Frankie Dean’s thin lips curled in a sneer. "Oh, they call this

Bohemia, don’t they! Did you ever see anything so cheap and vulgar in

your life? I feel positively dirty!"

 

Cayley watched for Clytie’s answer. It came with a jet of fervor.

"Why," she exclaimed, "don’t you see it’s real? It’s _real_! It isn’t

the way we care to do things, but they’re all alive and human—every one

of them!"

 

"Bah! It’s all a pose. They’re pretending they’re devilish."

 

"I don’t care!" Clytie’s eyes fired. "Even so, there’s a live person

in each of them—they’re just as real as we are. I never understood it

before. Look under the surface of it—there’s blood there!"

 

"It’s San Francisco!" said Cayley, "that explains everything. Oh, this

town!" He sat down shaking his head.

 

The old _patron_ bustled excitedly through the room.

 

"Take-a de foot off de table! Take-a de foot off de table!" he

protested. "You spoil the table clot’—you break-a de dishes! I don’t like dat! Get down, you! Get down!"