"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.
"I called to see Mr. Granthope; I think I have an appointment at ten,"
she said.
"Miss Heller?" Fancy asked. The girl nodded. Fancy took inventory of
the girl's points, looking her up and down before she replied, "All
right; just be seated for a moment, please."
She walked to the studio and met Granthope coming out. They spoke in
whispers.
"Let her down easy," Fancy suggested. "It's a love affair. She has a
letter in her coat pocket, all folded up; you can see the wrinkles where
it bulges out. Hat pin made of an army button, and she doesn't know
enough to paint. Make her take off her coat and see if her right sleeve
isn't soiled above where she usually wears a paper cuff to protect it.
She is half frightened to death and she has been crying."
"All right," said Granthope. "I'll give her five dollars' worth of
optimism."
Fancy put her hand in his softly. "Say, Frank, just charge this to me
and be good to her, will you?"
"All right. If you like her, I'll do my best. She'll be smiling when
she comes out, you see if she isn't."
As the girl went in for her reading, Mrs. Page walked into the
reception-room, and nodded condescendingly. She was a dashing woman of
thirty-five, full of the exuberance and flamboyant color of California.
Her hair was jet black and glossy, massively coiled upon her head; her
features were large, but regular and well formed; her figure somewhat
voluptuous in its tightly fitting tailor suit of black. She was a vivid
creature, with impellent animal life and temperament linked, apparently,
to a rather silly, feminine brain. Her mouth was large, and in it white
teeth shone. She was all shadows and flashes, high lights and depths of
velvety black. From her ears, two spots of diamond radiance twinkled as
she shook her head. When she drew off her gloves, with a manner, more
twinkles illuminated her hands. Still others shone from the cut steel
buckles of her shoes. She was somewhat overgrown, flavorless and gaudy,
like California fruit, and her ways were kittenish. Her movements were
all intense. When she looked at anything, she opened her eyes very
wide; when she spoke she pursed her lips a bit too much. Altogether she
seemed to have a superfluous ounce of blood in her veins that infused
her with useless energy.
Fancy eyed her pragmatically, added her up, extracted her square root
and greatest common divisor. The result she reached was evident only by
the imperious way in which she invited her to be seated and the
nonchalant manner in which, after that, she gazed out upon Geary Street.
Mrs. Page, however, would be loquacious.
"Shall I have to wait long?" she asked. "I have an engagement at eleven
and I simply _must_ see Mr. Granthope first! It's very important."
"I don't know," said Fancy coolly. "It depends upon whether he has an
interesting sitter or not. Sometimes he's an hour, and sometimes he's
only fifteen minutes." She spoke with a slightly stinging emphasis,
examining, meanwhile, the spots on her own finger-nails.
"Oh," said Mrs. Page, and it was evident that the remark gave her an
idea as to her own personal powers of attraction. "I thought Mr.
Granthope treated all his patrons alike."
"Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn't," was Fancy's cryptic
retort. She watched the effect under drooped lashes.
The effect was to make Mrs. Page squirm uneasily, as if she didn't know
whether she had been hit or not. She took refuge in the remark: "Well, I
hope he will give me a good reading this time."
"It all depends on what's in your hand," Fancy followed her up, smiling
amiably.
Mrs. Page minced and simpered: "Do you know, somehow I _hate_ to have
him look at my hand, after what he said before. He told me such
_dreadful_ things, I'm afraid he'll discover more."
"Why do you give him a chance, then?" said Fancy coldly.
"Oh, I hope he'll find something better, this time!"
"Weren't you satisfied with what he gave you?" Fancy asked. "I have
found Mr. Granthope usually strikes it about right."
"Oh, of course, I'm satisfied," Mrs. Page admitted. "In fact, I trust
him so implicitly that I have acted on his advice. But it's rather
dreadful to know the truth, don't you think?"
Fancy nodded her head soberly. "_Sometimes_ it is." She accented the
adverb mischievously.
"Oh, I don't mean what you mean at all!"
"I know. You mean it's dreadful to have other people know the truth?"
"No; but I can't help my character, can I? It's not _my_ fault if I
_have_ faults. It's all written in my palm and I can't alter it. Only,
I mean it's awful to know exactly what's going to happen and not be able
to prevent it."
"It's worse not to want to." Fancy waved her hand to some one in the
street.
Mrs. Page withdrew from the conversation, routed, and devoted herself to
a study of the Chinese masks, casting an occasional impatient glance
into the anteroom. Fancy polished her rings with her handkerchief.
Granthope's voice was now heard, talking pleasantly with Fleurette, who
was smiling, as he had promised. As she left, flushed and happy,
Granthope greeted Mrs. Page, and escorted her, bubbling with talk, into
the studio. The door closed upon a pervading odor of sandalwood, Mrs.
Page's legacy to Fancy, who sniffed at it scornfully.
Many cable-cars had passed without Fancy's having recognized any one
worth bowing to, before the next client appeared; but, at that visitor's
entry, she became a different creature. Her eyes never really left him,
although she seemed, as he waited, to be busy about many things.
He was a smart young man, a sort of a bank-clerk person, dressed neatly,
with evidence of considerable premeditation. His hair was parted in the
middle, his face was cleanly shaven. His sparkling, laughing eyes,
devilishly audacious, his pink cheeks and his cool self-assured manner
gave him an appearance of juvenile, immaculate freshness, which rendered
an acquaintance with such a San Francisco girl as Fancy Gray, easy and
agreeable. He laid his hat and stick against his hip jauntily, and
asked:
"Could I get a reading from Mr. Granthope without waiting all day for
it?" As he spoke he loosed a frivolous, engaging glance at her.
"He'll be out in just a moment," Fancy replied with more interest than
she had heretofore shown. "Won't you sit down and wait, please?"
He withdrew his eyes long enough to gallop round the room with them, but
they returned to her like horses making for a stable. He took a seat,
pulled up his trousers over his knees, drew down his cuffs, felt the
knot in his tie and smoothed his hair, all with the quick, accurate
motion due to long habit. "Horrible weather," he volunteered
debonairly.
"It's something fierce, isn't it?" said Fancy, opening and shutting
drawers, searching for nothing. "It gets on my nerves. I wish we'd
have one good warm day for a change."
"Been out to the beach lately?" he asked, eying her with undisguised
approval. He breathed on the crown of his derby hat and then smelt of
it.
"No," she replied. "I don't have much time to myself. I hate to go
alone, anyway." Fancy looked aimlessly into the top drawer of her desk.
"That's too bad! But I shouldn't think you'd ever have to go alone.
You don't look it."
"Really?" Fancy's tone was arch.
"That's right! I know some one who'd be willing to chase out there with
you at the drop of the hat."
Fancy, appearing to feel that the acquaintance was making too rapid
progress, said, "I don't care much for the beach; it's too crowded."
"That depends upon when you go. I've got a car out there where we could
get lost easy enough. Then you can have a quiet little dinner at the
Cliff House almost any night."
"Can you? I never tried it."
"It's time you did. Suppose you try it with me?"
Fancy opened her eyes very wide at him and let him have the full benefit
of her stare. "Isn't this rather sudden? You're rushing it a little
too fast, seems to me."
"Not for me. I'm sorry you can't keep up. You don't look slow."
Fancy turned to her engagement book.
"You must have known some pretty easy ones," she said sarcastically.
The snub did not silence him for long. He recrossed his legs, drummed
on the brim of his hat, and began:
"Say, did you ever go to Carminetti's?"
"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.
Granthope watched her keenly. With his eyes and ears full of Fancy
Gray's ardent, dramatic youth, sparkling with the sophistication of the
city, slangy, audacious, gay, this girl seemed almost unreal in her
delicacy and exquisite virginity, a creature of dreams and faery, the
personification of an ideal too fine and fragile for every-day. Her
face showed caste in every line. He was a little afraid of her. Her
bearing compelled not only respect, but, in a way, reverence--a tribute
he seldom had felt inclined to pay to the _mondaines_ who visited him.
His confidence, however, soon asserted itself. He had found that all
women were alike--there were, as in chess, several openings to his game,
but, once started, the strategy was simple.
"Well, how do you like my studio?"
"It's like dreams I've had," she said. "I like it. It's so simple."
"Most people think it too somber."
"It is somber; but that purple-black is wonderful in the way it takes
the light. And it's all so different!"
"Yes, I flatter myself it is that. But I'm 'different' myself."
"Are you?" She turned her eyes steadfastly upon him for the first time,
as if mentally appraising him, as he stood, six feet of virility,
handsome, vivid and nonchalant. The color which had risen to her cheeks
still remained.
"You are, too," he went on, examining her as deliberately.
She smiled faintly and took a seat by the table and removed her veil.
Her face was now clearly illuminated, and Granthope's eyes, traveling
from feature to feature in quest of significant details, fell upon her
left cheek. His look was arrested at the sight of a brown velvety mole,
a veritable beauty-spot, heightening the color of her skin. It was
charming, making her face piquant and human. His hand went to his
forehead thoughtfully.
At the sight of this mark upon her cheek, something troubled him. His
mind, always alert to suggestive influences, registered the faintest
impression of a thought at first too elusive to be called an idea. It
was like the ultimate, dying ripple from some far-off shock to his
consciousness. The impact died almost as it reached him--a flash,
vaguely stimulating to his imagination, and then it was gone, its
mysterious message uncomprehended.
She watched him a little impatiently, seeming to resent his scrutiny.
Noticing this, he summoned his distracted attention and seated himself
at the table. But, from time to time, now, his glance darted to her
cheek surreptitiously, searching for the lost clue. He had learned the
value of such subtle intuitions and would not give up his efforts to
take advantage of this one.
She laid her bare hand upon the black velvet cushion beneath the light,
saying, "I'm sorry that something has disturbed you." She looked at
him, and then away.
"Why, nothing has disturbed me," he said. "Why should you think so?"
Even as he pulled himself together for this denial her quick perception
gave him another cause for wonder.
"I'm rather sensitive to other people's moods sometimes. That's one
reason why I came. I didn't know but you might tell me something about
it--how far to trust it, perhaps--though I came, I confess, more from
curiosity."
Her air was still so detached that her conversational approaches seemed
almost experimental. She spoke with pauses between her phrases, while
her eyes, now showing full and clear gray, lit upon him only to rove
off, returned and departed again, but never rapidly, as if she sought
for her words here and there in the room, and brought them calmly back
to him. She did not shun a direct gaze, but her look wandered as her
thought wandered in its logical course, for the time seeming to forget
his presence.
He took her hand and felt of it, testing its quality and texture,
preparing himself for his speech. Her hand was long and slim, with
scarcely a fiber more flesh upon the bones than was necessary to cover
them admirably. He had no thought at first except to give his ordinary
routine of reading, but his study of her showed her to be an exceptional
character. She was beautiful, with the loveliness of an aristocratic and
slightly bewildering spiritual type. Her hand in his was magnetic,
delicious of contact, subtly alive even though not consciously
responsive. Other women with more obvious charm had left him cold.
She, aided by no suggestion of coquetry or complaisance, allured him.
She awakened in him a desire not wholly physical, although he could not
fail to regard her primarily in the sex relation that, so far, had been
his chief interest in women. She, as a woman, answered, in some secret
way, him, as a man. This was his first wave of feeling. Her hint
amused him, true as her intuition had been; she had stumbled upon his
embarrassment, no doubt, and had claimed prescience, a common enough
form of feminine conceit. There he had a valuable suggestion as to the
direction of her line of least resistance to his wiles.
Following upon this, as the first feeling of her unreality faded, upon
contact, came the thought of her as a wealthy and credulous girl, who
might minister to his ambitions. He was without real social
aspirations, except in so far as his success in the fashionable world
favored the game he was playing. Years of contact with credulity and
hypocrisy had carried him, mentally, too far to value the lionizing and
the hero-worship he had tasted from his smarter clients. But the
patronage of such a fair and finished creature as this girl, especially
if he could establish a more intimate relation, might secure the
permanence of his position and his opportunities. He saw vistas of
delight and satisfaction in such an acquaintance. He had had his fill
of silly women whose favors were paid for in ministrations to their
vanity. Such tribute, easy as it was for him with his facility, irked
him. Here, perhaps, was one who might hold his interest by her fineness
and her mentality, and by the very difficulty he might find in
impressing her. There would be zest to the pursuit.
Beneath these waves of feeling, however, and beneath his active
intelligence, there was an inchoate disturbance in some subconscious
stratum of his mind. He felt it only as the slight mental perplexity the
mole upon her cheek had caused; he had no time, now, to pursue that
incipient idea. His impression of her as a desirable, pleasurable
quarry incited him to devise the psychological method necessary for her
capture. He knew to a hair, usually, what he could do with women; but
now he was forced to gain time by a preamble in the conventional patter
of the palmist's cult.
Her hand, it appeared, was of a mixed type, neither square nor conic,
with long fingers, inclined to be psychic. He remarked the
extraordinary sensitiveness denoted by their cushioned tips. Nails,
healthy and oval; knuckles indicating a good sense of order in mental
and physical life. She was, in short, of strong, vigorous mentality,
well-balanced, artistic, generous, liberal; but (he referred to the
Mount of Jupiter) with a tendency to be a looker-on rather than a sharer
in the ordinary social pleasures of life. Saturn, developed more toward
the finger, gave her a slightly melancholy temperament; Apollo showed a
great appreciation of the beautiful in nature, with no little critical
knowledge of art; Mercury was less developed, and implied a lack of
humor; Venus betrayed a well-controlled but warm feeling; it was
soft--she was, consequently, easily moved. Her thumb was wilful rather
than logical, her fingers suggested respectively, pride, perception,
self-respect, morbidity, love of the beautiful as distinguished from the
ornamental, tact.
He had thrown himself into a pose so habitual as to become almost
unconscious, though it was keyed to the theatrical pitch of his
picturesque appearance and surroundings. The girl's expression showed,
to his alert eye, a slight disappointment at the conventionality of his
remarks. This spurred him to more originality and definiteness. He
tossed his hair back with one hand in a quick gesture and turned to the
lines in her palm, examining them first with a magnifying glass and then
tracing them with an ivory stylus. Her eyes were fixed upon his, as if
she were more interested in the manner than the matter of his task.
"You are the sort of person," he said, "who is, in a certain sense,
egoistic. That is, after a criticism of any one, you would immediately
ask yourself, 'Would I not have done the same thing, under the same
circumstances?' You're stupendously frank--you'd own up to anything,
any faults you thought you possessed; you'd even exaggerate a jestingly
ignoble confession of motives because you hate hypocrisy so much in
others. You are eminently fair and just, as you are generous. You have
none of the ordinary feminine arts of coquetry. If you liked a man you
would say so frankly."
It was typical of Granthope's enthusiasm for his game that he dared thus
play it so boldly with his cards face up upon the table. His visitor
began to show more interest; it was evident that she appreciated the
ingeniousness of his phrasing. Her lip curved into a dainty smile. Her
eyes gleamed slyly, then withdrew their fire.
He continued: "You are slow in action, but when the time comes, you can
act swiftly without regard of the consequences. You are not prudish.
You are willing to look upon anything that can be regarded as evidence
as to the facts of life, even though you may not care to go into things
purely for the sake of experience. You are faithful and loyal, but you
are not of the type that believes 'the king can do no wrong'--you see
your friends' faults and love them in spite of those faults, yet you are
absolutely indifferent to most persons who make no special appeal. You
are lazy, but physically, not mentally--there is no effort you will
spare yourself to think things out and get to the final solution of a
psychological or moral problem. You love modernness, complexity of
living, the wonderful adjustments that money and culture effect, but not
enough to endure the conventionality that sort of life demands. You are
not particularly economical--you'd never go all over your town for a
bargain or to 'pick up' antiques--you would prefer to go to a good shop
and pay a fair price. You are fond of children--not of all children,
however, only bright and interesting ones. You are fond of dress in a
sensuous sort of way; that is, you like silk stockings, because they
feel cool and smooth; silk skirts, because they fall gracefully and make
a pleasant swish against your heels; furs, on account of the color and
softness, but none of these merely because of their richness or
splendor."
His face was intent, almost scowling, two vertical lines persisting
between his brows; his mouth was fixed. His concentration seemed to
hold no personal element; there was nothing to resent in the contact of
his fingers or the absorption of his gaze. Suddenly, however, he looked
up and smiled--he knew how to smile, did Granthope--and the relation
between them became so personal and intimate that she involuntarily drew
away her hand. He was instantly sensitive to this and by his attitude
reassured her. Not, however, before she had blushed furiously, in spite
of evident efforts to control herself.
His eyes glanced again at the mole on her cheek. Then, as if electrified
by the sudden kindling and intensification of her personality, his
subconscious mind finished its work without the aid of reason. As a
bubble might separate itself from the bottom of the sea and ascend,
quivering, to the surface, his memory unloosed its secret, and it rose,
to break in his mind. The mole--_he had seen it before_--where? Like a
tiny explosion the answer came--_upon the cheek of the little girl who
visited them that day_, twenty-three years ago, at Madam Grant's--the
day she died. It reached him with the certainty of truth. It did not
even occur to him to doubt its verity. In a flash, he saw what
sensational use he could make of the intelligence. Another idea
followed it--an old trick--perhaps it would work again.
"Would you mind taking off that ring?" he asked.
She drew off a simple gold band set with three turquoises. He laid it
upon the cushion, turning it between his fingers as he did so. In a
single glance he had read the inscription engraved inside. His ruse was
undetected; her eyes had roved about the room. He turned to her again.
"You are twenty-seven years old. You have a lover, or, rather, a man is
making love to you. I do not advise you to marry him. You have
traveled a good deal and will take another journey within a year.
Something is happening in connection with a male relative that worries
you. It will not be settled for some time. Are there any questions you
would like to ask?"
"I think you have answered them already," she replied.
He leaned back, to shake his hands and pass them across his forehead,
theatrically. Another bubble had broken in his consciousness. "Oliver
Payson!"--the name came sharply to his inner ear like a voice in a
telephone. Oliver Payson--he recalled now where he had seen the
name--_upon the newspaper cut pinned to the door of Madam Grant's
bedroom_. Like two drops of quicksilver combining, this thought fused
with that suggested by the mole on the girl's cheek. "Clytie
Payson"--this name came to him, springing unconjured to his mind. He
determined to hazard a test of the inspiration. He simulated the
typical symptoms of obsession, trembled, shuddered and writhed in the
professional manner. Then he said:
"Would you like a clairvoyant reading? I think I might get something
interesting, for I feel your magnetism very strongly."
She assented with an alacrity she had not shown before. Her eyes opened
wider, she threw off her lassitude, awakening to a mild excitement.
"Let me take your hands again--both of them. This is something I don't
often do, but I'll see what I can get."
He shut his eyes and spoke monotonously:
"I see a name--C, l, y--"
The girl's hands gave an involuntary convulsion.
"--t, i, e. Is that it? Clytie! Wait--I get the name--"
Beneath slightly trembling lids, a fine, sharp glance shot out at her
and was withdrawn again. It was as if he had stolen something from her.
"Payson!"
The girl withdrew her hands suddenly; she drew in her breath swiftly,
paling a little.
"That's my name, Clytie Payson! It's wonderful! Go on, please!"
She gave him her gracilent, dewy hands again, and he thrilled to their
provocative spell. He took advantage of her distraction to enjoy them
lightly. When he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice.
"I don't understand this! I don't know who these people are, or where
they are, and it seems ridiculous to tell it. But there is a fearfully
disordered room with the sun coming in through dirty, broken windows.
The floor is covered with rubbish, there's no furniture but a few old
boxes. I see two women and a little girl. They are in old-fashioned
costumes."
Clytie's face was pale, now, and she watched him breathlessly.
"One of the women has white hair and vivid black eyebrows. She talks
wildly sometimes; sometimes she's quite calm. The other woman is
middle-aged and has a soft voice. The little girl is dressed in blue;
she is sitting on a box listening. The crazy woman is kissing her."
He shook himself, shuddered and opened his eyes, to find Miss Payson
gazing upon him, her hand to her heart.
"It's strange!" she said.
"It sounds nonsensical, I suppose," he said, "but that's just what I
get. Can you make anything of it?"'
"It's all true!" said Clytie. "That very thing happened to me when I
was a little girl--so long ago, that I had almost forgotten it."
"You remember it, then?"
"Yes, it all comes back to me--though I have wondered vaguely about it
often enough. It was when I was four years old and I went with my
mother to call on this strange, crazy woman--if she were crazy! I never
knew. I never dared speak to father about it. He never knew that we
went, I think. I had an idea that he wouldn't have liked it, had he
known."
"And your mother?"
"She died--the same year, I think. We left San Francisco, father and I,
soon after, and we lived abroad for several years. I didn't even
remember the scene until long afterward, when something brought it up.
Then it was like a dream or a vision."
"Do you know, Miss Payson, I feel that you have very strong mediumistic
powers; I can feel your magnetism. I think that you might develop
yourself so as to be able to use your psychic force."
She took it seriously.
"Yes, I think I do have a certain amount of capacity that way. I can
never depend upon it, though, but my intuitions are very strong and
occasionally rather strange things have happened to me."
It amused him to see how quickly she had fallen into the trap he had set
for her. Experience had taught him it was a common enough assertion for
women to make, and he was cynically incredulous. He was a little
disappointed, too; as, in his opinion, it discounted her intelligence.
Nevertheless, he found in it a way to manipulate her.
"Perhaps I might help you to develop it," he suggested, "although I'm
not much of a clairvoyant myself; I claim only to be a scientific
palmist."
"I think you are wonderful," Clytie asserted, giving him a glance of
frank admiration. "This test alone would prove it. You see, having
some slight power myself, I'm more ready to believe that others have
it."
He waived her compliment with apparent modesty.
"Women are more apt to be gifted that way--it isn't often I attempt a
psychic reading. What is written in the palm I can read; as a physician
diagnoses a case from symptoms in the pulse and tongue and temperature,
so I read a person's character from what I see in the hand. I have been
particularly interested in yours, Miss Payson, and perhaps I have been
able to give you more than usual. I hope I may have the opportunity of
seeing you again; I'm quite sure I can help you, or put you in the way
of assistance."
She arose and slowly drew on her gloves, her mind full of the
revelation. He watched every motion with delight. Her brief mood of
irradiation had given place to her customary languor, and her fragile
loveliness, emphasizing the opposite to every one of his virile, ardent
traits, allured him with the appeal of one extreme to another. Most of
all, her mouth, wayward with its ravishing smile, enchanted him. It was
controlled by no coquetry, he knew, and it moved him the more for that
reason. Yet she seemed loath to go and moved slowly about the room.
She stopped to point with a sweeping gesture at one side of the
velvet-hung wall.
"It's rather too bad to hide the windows, isn't it?"
He smiled at her divination, doubtful of its origin.
"You have a very good sense of direction, haven't you?"
She appeared to notice his incredulity, but not to resent it.
"Indeed, I have very little," she said; then, giving him her hand with a
quick impulse of cordiality, she smiled, nodded and turned to the
anteroom.
He glanced at the table, saw her ring, and made a motion toward it.
Then it occurred to him that it might be used as an excuse for seeing
her again and he followed her out.
In the reception-room, Fancy was yawning; seeing them, she brought her
hand quickly to her mouth and raised her eyebrows at Granthope. He made
no sign in reply. Clytie walked up to her impulsively and held out her
hand.
"I do hope I'll see you again, sometime," she said.
Fancy laughed. "I do, too. You're the only one who's ever really
appreciated me. You make me almost wish I was a lady." By her tone,
there was some old wound that bled.
"You're that, and better, I'm sure," Clytie answered softly; "you're
yourself!"
She turned to leave. Granthope, who had watched the two women, amused,
opened the door for her, received her long, steady glance, her quiet,
low "Good morning," and bowed her out.
As soon as she had fairly left, he turned quickly to Fancy. "Where's
Philip?"
"In the back room, I suppose." Fancy looked surprised.
"Go and get him, please; tell him to find out where this girl lives, and
all he can about her."
"Say, Frank--" Fancy began, rising.
"Hurry, please! I don't want him to miss her. She's a good thing!"
"She's _too_ good, Frank, that's just it!"
"That's why I want her. I don't catch one like that every day. Why,
she's worth all the rest put together." He looked impatiently at her.
Fancy shrugged her shoulders and sailed airily out of the room.
Granthope stood for some time, his hands thrust into the pockets of his
velvet coat, gazing abstractedly at the red wall of his reception-room.
Then he took up the telephone and called for Madam Spoll's number.
He made himself known and then said, "I'll be round to-night before your
seance. I want to talk something over."
*CHAPTER III*
*THE SPIDER'S NEST*
The architecture of San Francisco was, in early days, simple and
unpretentious, befitting the modest aspirations of a trading and mining
town. Builders accepted their constructive limitations and did their
honest best. False fronts, indeed, there were, making one-story houses
appear to be two stories high, but redwood made no attempts in those
days to masquerade as marble or granite.
During the sixties, a few French architects imported a taste for classic
art, and for a time, within demure limits, their exotic taste prevailed.
The simple, flat, front wall of houses, now grown to three honest
stories high, they embellished with dentil cornice, egg-and-dart
moldings and chaste consoles; they added to the second story a little
Greek portico with Corinthian columns accurately designed, led up to by
a flight of wooden steps; the facade was broken by a single bay-window,
ornamented with conventional severity. Block after block of such
dwelling-houses were built. They had a sort of restful regularity, they
broke no artistic hearts.
In later days, when San Francisco had begun to take its place in the
world, a greater degree of sophistication ensued. Capitals of columns
became more fanciful, ornament more grotesquely original, till ambitious
turners and wood-carvers gave full play to their morbific imagination.
Then was the day of scrolls and finials, bosses, rosettes, brackets,
grille-work and comic balusters. Conical towers became the rage, wild
windows, odd porches and decorations nailed on, regardless of design,
made San Francisco's nightmare architecture the jest of tourists.
Lastly, after an interregnum of Queen Anne vagaries, came the
Renaissance and the Age of Stone, heralded by concrete imitations and
plaster walls of bogus granite.
Madam Spoll's house was of that commonplace, anemically classic style
which, after all, was then the least offensive type of residence. It
was painted appropriately in lead color--for the house, with the rest of
the block, seemed to have been cast in a mold--a tone which did its best
to make Eddy Street prosaic. It had been long abandoned by fashion and
was now hardly on speaking terms with respectability. It occupied a
place in a row of boarding-houses, cheap millinery establishments and
unpretentious domiciles. There was a dreary little unkempt yard in
front, with a passage leading to an entrance under the front steps;
above, the sign "Madam Spoll, Clairvoyant and Medium," was displayed on
ground glass, and below, hanging on a nail against the wall, was a
transparency. When the lamp was lighted inside this, one read the words:
"Circle To-night. Admittance ten cents."
This Thursday the lamp was lighted. It was half-past seven o'clock.
Devotees had begun to arrive, and, entering by the lower door, they paid
their dimes to Mr. Spoll, who stood beside the little table at the
entrance, left their "tests"--envelopes, flowers, jewelry or what
not--and passed into the audience-room.
This had once been a dining-room and its walls were covered with a
figured paper, above which was a bright red border decorated with
Japanese fans and parasols. A few gaudy paper lanterns hung from the
ceiling, and here and there were hung framed mottoes: "There Is No
Death"--"We Shall Meet Again"--"There Is a Land that is Fairer than
Day." This room was filled with chairs set in rows, and would hold some
forty or fifty persons. It was separated by an arch from a smaller room
beyond, where, upon a platform, stood a table with an open Bible, an
organ, two chairs and a folding screen.
Only the front seats were at present occupied, these by habitues of the
place, all firm believers, a picturesque group showing at a glance the
stigmata of eccentricity or mental aberration. For the most part they
were women in black; they bowed to one another as they sat down, then
waited in stolid patience for the seance to open. The others were pale,
blue-eyed men with drooping mustaches and carefully parted hair, and a
whiskered, bald-headed old gentleman or two who sat in silence. The
room was dimly illuminated by side lights.
Farther down the hallway, opposite the foot of a flight of stairs
leading upward to her living-rooms, was Madam Spoll's "study," and here
she was, this evening, preparing for business.
This room was small and crowded with furniture. The marble mantel held
an assortment of bisque bric-a-brac, sea-shells, paper knives and cheap
curiosities. The walls were covered with photographs, a placque or two,
fans and picture cards. A huge folding bed, foolishly imitating a
mirrored sideboard, occupied one corner of the room. A couch covered
with fancy cushions and tidies ran beside it. A table, heavily draped,
a three-legged tea-stand, an easel with a satin sash bearing the
portrait, photographically enlarged in crayon, of a bold, smirking,
overdressed little girl, a ragged trunk and several plush-covered chairs
were huddled, higgledy-piggledy, along the other side of the room.
Upon the couch Madam Spoll sat, spraying envelopes with alcohol from an
atomizer on a small bamboo stand before her.
She was an enormous woman of masculine type, with short, briskly
curling, iron-gray hair and a triple chin. Heavy eyebrows, heavy lips,
heavy ears and cheeks had Madam Spoll, but her forehead was unlined with
wrinkles; her expression was serene, and, when she smiled, engaging and
conciliating. She was dressed in black satin with wing-like sleeves,
the front of her waist being covered with a triangular decoration of
bead-work.
Watching her with roving, black eyes was Professor Vixley, smoking a
vile cigar. His face was sallow, of a predatory mold with a pointed,
mangy beard, and sharp, yellow teeth. He wore a soft, striped flannel
shirt with a flowing pink tie. From the sleeves of his shiny, cutaway
coat, faded to a purplish hue, his thin, tanned, muscular hands showed
like the claws of a vulture.
"You seem to be doin' a pretty good business," he remarked, dropping his
ashes carelessly upon the floor.
"So-so," Madam Spoll answered. "If things go well we hope to get a new
hall up on Post Street, but there ain't nothing in tests. Straight
clairvoyance is the future of _this_ business. Of course, we have to
give cheap circles to draw the crowd, but it's a lot of bother and
expense and it does tire me all out. Then there's always the trouble
from the newspapers likely to come up."
"Pshaw! I wouldn't mind gettin' into the newspapers occasionally, it's
good advertisin'. The more you're exposed the better you get along, I
believe."
"'Lay low and set on your eggs' is my motto," said the Madam. "I don't
like too much talk. I prefer to work in the dark--there's more money in
it in the long run. I don't care if I only have a few customers; if
they're good and easy I can make all I want."
"What do you bother with sealed messages for, Gert?" Professor Vixley
asked.
"Oh, I got to fix a lot of skeptics to-night. I can usually open the
ballots right on the table easy enough behind the flowers, but I want to
read a few sealed messages besides. It may help along with Payson,
too." She took up an envelope numbered "275." It was saturated with
alcohol. She held it to the light, and squinting at the transparent
paper, she read: "'When is Susie coming home?' Now, ain't that a fool
question? I'll take a rise out of _her_, see if I don't! That's that
woman who got into trouble in that poisoning case."
"Say, the alcohol trick's a pretty good stunt when you get a chance to
use it! But I don't have time for it in my business."
"Yes, it's easy enough if you use good, grain alcohol, but I wish I had
an egg-tester. They save a lot of time, and you can read through four
or five thicknesses of paper with 'em. Spoll, he has plenty of chance
to hold out the ballots and bring 'em in to me; his coming and going
ain't noticed, because he has to fetch 'em up to the table, anyway. By
the time I go on, all the smell's faded out. If it ain't, my
handkerchief is so full of perfumery that you can't notice anything
else. I'm going to fit up my table with one o' them glass plates with
an electric flash-light underneath that I can turn on with a switch.
You can read right through the envelope then. But I don't often consent
to tests like that. It deteriorates your powers. And my regular
customers are usually contented to send their ballots up open and glad
of the chance to get an answer. _They_ don't want to give the spirits
no trouble! Lord, I wish I had the power I had when I begun." She
smiled pleasantly at her companion.
"I see old Mrs. Purinton on the front row as I come in," Vixley
observed, shifting his cigar labially from one corner of his mouth to
the other.
"Say, there's a grafter for fair!" she exclaimed. "She's been coming
here to the publics for two years and never once has she gave me a
private setting. That's what I call close. She's as near as matches!
And always the same old song--little Willie's croup or when's Henry
going to write, and woozly rubbish like that. I got a good mind to hand
her a dig. I could make a laughing-stock out of her, and scare her away
easy. Folks do like a laugh at a public seance; you know that,
Professor."
"Sure! It don't do no harm as long as you hit the right one."
"Oh, I ain't out for nothing but paper-sports and grafters. I know a
good thing when I see it. I hope there'll be something doing worth
while in this Payson business. He may show up to-night. Lulu claims
she conned him good."
"I hope I'll have a slice off him," said Professor Vixley, his beady,
black eyes shining. "We got to get up a new game for him before we pass
him down the line."
"Oh, if anybody can I guess we can; there's more'n one way to kill a
cat, besides a-kissing of it to death."
"Yes, smotherin' it in hot air, for instance!" Vixley grinned.
"They's one thing I wish," said Madam Spoll, "and that is that we had a
regular blue-book like they have in the East. Why, they tell me there's
six thousand names printed for Boston alone. If we had some way of
getting a lead with this Payson it would be lots easier. But I expect
the San Francisco mediums will get better organized some day and
cooeperate more shipshape."
Here Mr. Spoll entered, a tall, thin, bony, wild-eyed individual with a
rolling pompadour of red hair, his face spattered with freckles. He
walked on tiptoe, as if at a funeral, bowed to the Professor, coughed
into his hand, and took up the letters Madam Spoll had been
investigating, putting down some new ones.
"Oh, here's that 'S.F.B.' that Ringa told me about," she said, glancing
at an envelope. "Is Ringa come in yet?"
"I ain't seen him; but it's early," said Spoll. "He'll show up all
right. I'll send him right in."
"Is Mr. Perry in front?"
"You bet!" Spoll was still tiptoeing about the room on some mysterious
errand. "Perry ain't likely to lose a chance to make a dollar, not
him!"
"He's a good one!" Madam Spoll smiled at the Professor. "I don't
hardly know what I'd do without him. I can always depend upon him to
make good. He ain't too willing, and sometimes, I declare, he almost
fools me, even. I've known him to stand up and denounce me something
fierce, especially when there was newspaper men in the audience, and
then just gradually calm down and admit everything I wanted him to. He
looks the part, too. Why, I sent him round to Mrs. Stepson's circle one
night, when she first come to town, and she was fooled good. I've seen
him cry at a materializing seance so hard it would almost break your
heart."
"Does he play spook?"
"No, he's best in the audience. He's a good capper, but I don't believe
he could play spook--besides, he's getting too fleshy."
"Who else have you got regular?" asked Professor Vixley.
"Only two or three. I don't need so many touts as most. I pride myself
on doing my own work without much help. Of course, you got to give a
name sometimes when a fishing test won't work, and a friend in the
audience helps. Miss French, she's pretty good, but she's tricky. I'm
afraid of her. I was gave away once to the _Chronicle_ and I lost a
whole lot of business. Men are safer. Harry Debert is straight enough,
but he's stupid. He's the too-willing kind, and you don't have a chance
to get any effect.
"Say, Spoll," she added to her husband, "be sure and don't take no combs
nor gloves! I ain't going to do no diagnosing in public--not for ten
cents. Them that want it can pay for it and take a private setting."
"They're mostly flowers to-night," said Spoll as he crept out of the
room.
"Lord, I do hate a flower test!" she groaned. "It's too hard work. Of
course, they're apt to bring roses if their name's Rose, or lilies and
daisies the same way, but you can't never be sure, and you have to fish.
Lockets is what I like, lockets and ballots."
At this moment Mr. Ringa entered. He was a bleached, tow-headed youth,
long and lanky, with mild gray eyes and a stubbly, straw-colored
mustache. Two front teeth were missing from his upper jaw. His clothes
seemed to have shrunk and tightened upon his frame. He bowed
respectfully to Madam Spoll and Professor Vixley, who represented to him
the top of the profession.
"Did you get that 'S.F.B.' letter, all right?" he asked.
"Yes, what about it?"
"She's easy!"