The Heart Line 6

The Heart Line 6

He went over to her again and very affectionately boxed her ears.

 

She freed herself, and turned her face up to him. "Frank," she said, "do

you think I’m pretty?"

 

"You’re too pretty—that’s the trouble!" he answered, smiling, as at a

familiar trait.

 

"No, but really—do you honestly think so?" Her face had again grown

plaintive.

 

"Yes, Fancy. Far be it from me to flatter or cajole with the

compliments of a five-dollar reading, but as between friends, and with

my hand on my heart, I assert that you are beautiful."

 

"I don’t mean that at all," said Fancy. "I want to be _pretty_. That’s

what men like—pretty girls. Beautiful women never get anywhere except

into the divorce courts. Do say I’m pretty!"

 

"Fancy, you know I’m a connoisseur of women. You are actually and

absolutely pretty."

 

"Well, that’s a great relief, if I can only believe you. I have to hear

it once a day, at least, to keep up my courage. Now that’s settled,

let’s go to work."

 

He went back to the fireplace and yawned. "All right. What’s doing

to-day?"

 

"Full up, except from eleven to twelve."

 

"Who are they?"

 

Fancy jauntily flipped open the appointment book and ran her forefinger

down the page.

 

"Ten o’clock, stranger, Fleurette Heller. Telephone appointment. Girl

with a nice voice."

 

"Be sure and look at her," Granthope remarked; "I may want a tip."

 

"Ten-thirty, Mrs. Page."

 

Granthope smiled and Fancy smiled.

 

"Do you remember what I told her?"

 

Fancy looked puzzled. "What do you mean? About her husband?"

 

"No, not that. The last time she came I tried a psychological

experiment with her. I told her that normally she was a quiet,

restrained, modest, discreet woman, but that at times her emotional

nature would get the better of her; that she couldn’t help breaking out

and would suddenly let go. I thought she was about due this week.

There’s been something doing and she wants to tell me about it to

appease her conscience. Give them what they want, and anything goes!"

 

Fancy listened, frowning, the point of her pencil between her lips.

"You don’t need any of my tips on Mrs. Page," she said with sarcasm.

"At eleven, Mr. Summer, whoever _he_ is."

 

"I don’t care, if he’s got the price."

 

"It bores you to read for men, doesn’t it, Frank? I wish you’d let me

do it."

 

As she spoke, the telephone bell on the desk rang, and she took up the

receiver, drooping her head coquettishly.

 

"Yes?" she said dreamily, her eyes on Granthope, who had lighted a

cigarette.

 

"Yes, half-past eleven o’clock, if that would be convenient. What name,

please? ... No, any name will do..... Miss Smith? All right—good-by."

 

She entered the appointment in her book, and then remarked decidedly,

"_She’s_ pretty!"

 

"No objections; they’re my specialty," Granthope replied; "only I doubt

it."

 

"Never failed yet," said Fancy.

 

Granthope looked at his watch, then passed through a red anteroom to his

studio beyond. Fancy began to draw little squares and circles and fuzzy

heads of men with mustaches upon a sheet of paper. In a few moments the

palmist returned, his morning coat replaced by a black velvet jacket

tight-fitting and buttoned close.

 

"Oh, Fancy, take a few notes, please; you didn’t get that last one

yesterday, I believe."

 

She reached for a lacquered tin box, containing a card catalogue,

withdrew a blank slip and dipped her pen in the ink. Then, as he

stopped to think, she remarked:

 

"I don’t see why you go to all this trouble, Frank. Nobody else does.

You’ve a good enough memory, and I think it’s silly. I feel as if I

were a bookkeeper in a business house."

 

"One might as well be systematic," he returned. "There’s no knowing when

all this will come in handy. I don’t intend to give five-dollar readings

all my life. I’m going to develop this thing till it’s a fine art. I’ve

got to do something to dignify the trade. This doesn’t use nearly all

that’s in me. I wish I had something to do that would take all my

intellect—it’s all too easy! I don’t half try. But it’s a living. God

knows I don’t care for the money—nor for fame either, for that matter.

Fame’s a gold brick; you always pay more for it than it’s worth. I

suppose it’s the sheer love of the game. I have a scientific delight in

doing my stunt better than it has ever been done before. Some play on

fiddles, I play on women—and make ’em dance, too! Some love machinery,

some study electricity—but the wireless, wheel-less mechanics of

psychology for mine. Practical psychology with a human laboratory.

Pour the acid of flattery, and human litmus turns red with delight. Try

the alkali of disapproval, and it grows blue with disappointment. I

give ’em a run for their money, too. I make life wonderful for poor

fools who haven’t the wit to do it for themselves. I peddle

imagination, Fancy."

 

"You get good prices," Fancy said, smiling a bit sadly. "There are

perquisites. There aren’t many men who have the chances you do, Frank.

Women are certainly crazy about you, and now that you’re taken up by the

smart set, I expect you will be spoiled pretty quick." She shook her

head coquettishly and dropped her eyes.

 

He shrugged his shoulders. "I should think you would be almost ashamed

of being a woman, Fan, sometimes," he said. "They are all alike, I

believe."

 

Fancy bridled. Then she bit her lip. "You’ll meet your match some

day!"

 

"God, I hope so! It’ll make things interesting. Nothing matters now. I

haven’t really wanted anything for years; and when you don’t want

anything, Fancy, the garlands are hung for you in every house."

 

"Did you ever have a conscience, Frank?"

 

"Not I. I shouldn’t know what to do with it, if I had one. I don’t see

much difference between right and wrong. We give them what they want,

as clergymen do. It may be true and it may be false. So may religion.

There are a hundred different kinds—some of them teach that you ought to

kill your grandmother when she gets to be fifty years old. Some teach

clothing and some teach nakedness. Some preach chastity—and some the

other thing. Who’s going to tell what’s right? My readings are

scientific; my predictions may be true, for all I know. Some I help and

some I harm, no doubt. But from all I can see, God Himself does that.

Take that Bennett affair! He lost his money, but didn’t he have a good

taste of life? We’ll never know the truth, anyway. Why not fool fools

who think there’s an answer to everything, and make ’em happy? Do you

remember that first time we played for Harry Wing? I was new at it

then. When I crawled through the panel and put on the robe, the tears

were streaming down my face to think I was going to fool an old man into

believing I was his dead son. What was the result? He was so happy

that he gave me his gold watch to be dematerialized for identification.

He got more solid satisfaction and comfort out of that trick than he had

out of a year of sermons. I only wish I could fool myself as easily as

I can fool others—then I could be happy myself."

 

"Why, aren’t you happy, Frank?" Fancy asked, her eyes full of him. "I

wish I could do something to make you happy—I’d do anything!"

 

"Oh, I’m not unhappy," he said lightly, neglecting her appeal. "I can’t

seem to suffer any more than I can really enjoy. I suppose I haven’t

any soul. I need ambition—inspiration. But we must get to work. Are

you ready?"

 

Fancy nodded.

 

"August 5th," he dictated. "Mrs. Riley. Age sixty-five. Spatulate,

extreme type. Wrist, B. Fingers, B, X, 5. Life 27. Head 18. Heart

4. Fate 12. 3 girdles. Venus B. Mars A. Thumb phalange

over-developed. Right, ditto. Now:—married three times, arm broken in

’94, one daughter, takes cocaine, interested in mines. Last husband

knew General Custer and Lew Wallace. Accidentally drowned, 1877.

Accused of murder and acquitted in 1878. Very poor.

 

"Don’t forget to look up Lew Wallace, Fancy! Go down to the library

to-night, will you?" he said, laying down his note-book.

 

"Where did you ever get that old dame?"

 

"Madam Spoll sent her here. She’s easy, but no money in her. Still, I

like to be thorough, even with charity cases; you never know what may

come of them."

 

The telephone bell prevented Fancy’s reply. She took up the receiver

and said "Yes" in a languishing drawl.

 

"Yes. Number 15? .... Payson? Spell it .... Hold the line a minute."

She turned to Granthope, her ear still to the receiver, her hand

muffling the mouth-piece.

 

"Funny. Speak of angels—here’s Madam Spoll now! She wants to know if

you’ve got anything about Oliver Payson?"

 

"Payson?" he repeated. "Oliver Payson? No, I don’t think so, have we?"

 

"I don’t remember the name, but I’ll run over the cards. Talk about

method! I wish Madam Spoll had some! P., Packard, Page—no; no Payson

here." She returned to the telephone. "No, we have nothing at all.

Good-by." Then she hung up the receiver.

 

Granthope, meanwhile, had been walking up and down the room, frowning.

 

"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.