The Heart Line 8

The Heart Line 8

"No, where is it?"

 

"Down on Davis Street. They have a pretty lively time there on Sunday

nights. Everybody goes, you know—gay old crowd. They sing and

everything. It’s the only really Bohemian place in town now."

 

"I’m never hungry on Sundays," Fancy said coolly.

 

"Nor thirsty, either?"

 

"Sir?" she said in mock reproof, and then burst into a laugh.

 

"Say, you scared me all right, _that_ time!"

 

"You don’t look like you would be scared easy. I guess it’s kind of hard

to call _you_ down."

 

He folded his arms and squared his shoulders. "I don’t know," he said.

"I don’t seem to make much of a hit with _you_!"

 

"Oh, you may improve!"

 

"Upon acquaintance?"

 

"Perhaps. You’re not in a hurry, are you?"

 

"That’s what I am!" He went at her now with more vigor. "I say, would

you mind telling me your name? Here’s my card."

 

He rose, and, walking over to the desk, laid down a card upon which was

printed, "Mr. Gay P. Summer." Fancy examined it deliberately. Then she

looked up and said:

 

"My name is Miss Gray, if you _must_ know. What are you going to do

about it?"

 

"I’ll show you!" he laughed, drawing nearer. What might possibly have

happened (for things do happen in San Francisco) was interrupted by

sounds predicting Mrs. Page’s return.

 

"Say, Miss Gray, I’ll ring you up later and make a date," he said under

his breath. Then he turned to Mrs. Page and stared her out of the room

with undisguised curiosity.

 

"You can see Mr. Granthope now," said Fancy, unruffled by the

competition.

 

He made an airy gesture and followed the palmist into the anteroom.

 

Fancy grew listless and abstracted. After a while she went to the

closet, examined herself in the glass on the door, adjusted the back of

her belt, fluffed her hair over her ears and reseated herself. Then she

took her book languidly and began to read.

 

There came a knock on the door.

 

"Come in," Fancy called out, arousing herself again. The new-comer was

one who, though at least twenty-seven, was still graciously modeled with

the lines of youth. Her head was poised with spirit on her neck, but,

like a flower on its stem, ready to move with her varying moods, from

languor to vivacity. Her hair was a light, tawny grayish-brown, almost

yellow, undulant and fine as gossamer. In the pure oval of her face,

under level, golden brows, her eyes were now questioning, now

peremptory, but usually smoldering with dreams, hiding their color.

Their customary quiescence, however, was contradicted by the

responsiveness of her perfectly drawn mouth—a springing bow, like those

of Du Maurier’s most beautiful women. The upper lip, narrow, scarlet, so

short that it seldom touched the lower, showed, beneath its lively

curve, a row of well-cut teeth. With such charm and delicacy of person

her small, flat ears and her proud, sensitive nostrils fell into lovely

accord. She wore a veil, and was dressed in a concord of cool grays,

modishly accented with black. Her movements were slow and graceful, as

if she had never to hurry.

 

"I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Granthope for half-past

eleven," she said in a smooth, low, rather monotonous voice.

 

"Miss Smith?" Fancy asked briskly, but with a more respectful manner

than she had shown Mrs. Page.

 

The lady blushed an unnecessary pink, and blushed again to find herself

blushing. She admitted the pseudonym with a nod.

 

"Take a seat, please," Fancy said. "Mr. Granthope will be ready for you

in a few minutes." Then her eyes fluttered over the visitor’s costume,

rested for a second upon her long black gloves, darted to her little,

patent-leather shoes, mounted to her black, picturesque hat, and sought

here and there, but without success, for jewelry.

 

The lady took a seat in silence. She repaired the mischief the wind had

done to her hair, raising her hand abstractedly, as she looked about the

room. The Chinese masks did not entertain her long, but the head of

Hypnos she appeared to recognize with interest. From that to Fancy, and

from Fancy to the row of casts, her glance went, slowly, deliberately.

Then she took a large bunch of violets from her corsage, and smelled

them thoughtfully.

 

Fancy began to play with one of her bracelets, clasping and unclasping

it. The lock caught in a bangle-chain, and, frowning, she bent to

unfasten it. In an instant the lady noticed her dilemma, smiled frankly,

and walked over to the desk, drawing off her long glove as she did so.

 

"Let me do it for you!" she said, and, taking Fancy’s hand, she busied

herself with the clasp.

 

Fancy watched her amusedly. The lady was so close that she could enjoy

the odor of the violets and a fainter, more exquisite perfume that came

from the diaphanous embroidered linen blouse, whose cost Fancy might

have reckoned in terms of her week’s salary. With careful, skilful

movements the chain was unfastened, but the lady still held Fancy’s hand

in her own.

 

"Oh, what beautiful hands you have!" she exclaimed. "I never saw

anything so lovely in my life! Let me see them both! I wonder if you

know how pretty they are!"

 

She looked questioningly into Fancy’s face and the twinkle in Fancy’s

eyes answered her.

 

"Oh, of course you do! Mr. Granthope must have told you! He has never

seen a prettier pair, I’m sure!" She laid them carefully down, palms to

the table, and smiled at Fancy.

 

"I see you’ve got the right idea about hands," said Fancy Gray archly.

"That second finger’s pretty good; did you notice it?"

 

Both laughed.

 

"I hope you don’t think I’m rude," said the lady.

 

"You don’t worry me a bit, so long as you can keep it up. I’m only

afraid you’re going to stop! But it seems to me you’ve got a pretty

small pair of hands yourself! No wonder you noticed mine!" Fancy gazed

at them, as if she were surprised to find any one who could compete with

her own specialty.

 

For answer, Miss Smith, as she had called herself, drew her violets from

her coat, kissed them and handed them to Fancy. Fancy played up; kissed

them too, nodded, as if drinking a health, and tucked them safely away

on her own breast. Then she treated Miss Smith to the by-play of her

delicious dimples, as she said, "Come in as often as you like,

especially when you have flowers!"

 

"Miss Smith’s" face had become wonderfully alive, and she gazed at Fancy

so frankly admiring that now Fancy had to drop her own eyes in

embarrassment. At this moment Granthope’s voice was heard as he came

out of his studio with Gay P. Summer. A kind of shyness seemed to

envelop the visitor and she drew back, her color mounting, her lids

drooping.

 

"I’m all ready for you, Miss Smith," said Granthope, coming into the

room and bowing suavely. "Come in, please."

 

Leaving Mr. Summer in conversational dalliance with Fancy Gray, the lady

followed the palmist into his studio. As she walked, her graceful,

long-limbed tread, with its easy swing, seemed almost leopard-like in

its unconscious freedom, her head was carried somewhat forward,

questing, her arms were slightly extended tentatively from her side, as

if she almost expected to touch something she could not see.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER II*

 

*TUITION AND INTUITION*

 

 

It was a large room, unfurnished except for a couch in a recess of the

wall and a table with two chairs drawn up under an electric-light bulb

which hung from the ceiling. The walls were covered from floor to

cornice by an arras of black velvet, falling in full, vertical folds,

sequestering the apartment in soft gloom. Over the couch, this drapery

was embroidered with the signs of the zodiac in a circle—all else was

shadowy and mysterious.

 

The young woman walked into the place with her leisurely stride—her chin

a little up-tilted, her eyes curious. In the center of the room she

stopped and looked slowly and deliberately about her. The corners of

her mouth lifted slightly with amusement, evidently at the obvious picturesqueness of the studio.