Fancy opened her eyes very wide.
"There's a whole lot you don't know about women yet," she said sagely.
"That's likely."
"Am I to understand that I'm fired, then?" She tried to appear demure.
"Not yet. I'm only too afraid you'll resign. It's queer you don't get
married. You must have had lots of chances. Why don't you, Fancy?"
"I never explain," said Fancy. "It only wastes time."
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?"