"Over there in the corner--don't stare so, _please_!--See those two
fellows and two girls? The girl in the white waist is tied up in a
heart-to-heart talk with that bald-headed chap, but she's dead in love
with the other fellow, see? Yes, that fellow with the mustache. My! but
she's jealous of the other girl."
"How can you tell? Oh, that's all a pipe-dream, Fancy!"
"Why, any fool would know it--any woman would, I mean. She had a few
words with him--the fellow she's stuck on, just now! He must have said
something pretty raw. Look at her eyes! You can tell from here there
are tears in them. Look! See? I thought so. She's going to try and
make him jealous! What do you think of that?"
"Why, she's changed places with him; what's that for?" To Gay, the
drama was as mysterious as a Chinese play.
"Just to get him crazy, of course! That other fellow thinks she's
really after him, too. The other girl sees through the whole game, of
course. My, but men are easy! Those two fellows are certainly being
worked good and plenty. Just look at the way she's freezing up to that
bald-headed chap now. Well, I never! If that other girl isn't trying
to get you on the string. Smile at her, Gay, and see what she'll do."
"Never mind about her!" said Gay, secretly pleased at the tribute. "You
girls can always see a whole lot more than what really happens. She's
just changed places on account of the draught, probably. She is lamping
me, though, isn't she? Say, she's a peach, all right!"
"Yes, she's sure pretty. Say, Gay--"
"What?" His eye returned fondly to her.
"Do you think I'm as pretty as she is?"
"Oh, you make me tired, Fancy. Gee! You've got her sewed up in a sack
for looks!"
So Fancy played her game cleverly, keeping Gay, but keeping him off at
arm's length. But as time went on, his ardor grew and she was often at
her wits' end to handle him. Though free from any conventional
restraints, she did not yet consider her lips Mr. Summer's property,
though she permitted him a cool and lifeless hand upon occasion. In
time, the excitable youth began to understand her reserve; but instead
of dampening his enthusiasm, it aroused his zest for the chase. She was
not so easy game as he had thought. He waxed sentimental, therefore, and
plied her with equivocal monologues, hinting, in the attempt to make
sure of his way. At this, her sense of humor broke forth, effervescing
in lively ridicule. This brought Mr. Summer, at last, to the point of
an out-and-out proposal. Fancy, experienced in such situations, warned
in time by his preludes, did not take it too seriously.
"I am sorry to say you draw a blank, Gay," she informed him lightly.
"I'm not in the market yet. Many a man has expected me to become
domesticated at sight, and settle down in content over the cookstove.
But I haven't even a past yet--nothing but a rather tame present and
hope for a future. I don't seem to see you in it, Gay. In fact,
there's nobody visible to the naked eye at present."
"Well," he said, "I'll cut it out for now, as long as I can't make good,
but sometime you'll come to me and beg me to marry you, see if you
don't. Whenever you get ready, I'll be right there with the goods."
Fancy laughed and the episode was closed.
"Say, Fancy, there's a gang of artist chaps and literary guys I'd like
to put you up against," Gay said one afternoon. "I think you'd make a
hit with the bunch, if you can stand a little jollying."
"You watch me!" Fancy became enthusiastically interested. "Where do
they hang out?"
"They eat at a joint down on Montgomery Street. They're heavy joshers,
though. They're too clever for me, mostly. It's the real-thing Bohemia
down there, though."
"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" she pouted. "I'm game! Let's
float in there to-night and see the animals feed."
So they went down to the Latin Quarter together.
Bohemia has been variously described. Since Henri Murger's time, the
definition has changed retrogressively, until now, what is commonly
called Bohemia is a place where one is told, "This is Liberty
Hall!"--and one is forced to drink beer whether one likes it or not,
where not to like spaghetti is a crime. Not such was the little coterie
of artists, writers and amateurs, who dined together every night at
Fulda's restaurant.
In San Francisco is recruited a perennial crop of such petty soldiers of
fortune. Here art receives scant recompense, and as soon as one gets
one's head above water and begins to be recognized, existence is
unendurable in a place where genius has no field for action. The
artist, the writer or the musician must fly East to the great
market-place, New York, or to the great forcing-bed, Paris, to bloom or
fade, to live or die in competition with others in his field.
So the little artistic colonies shrink with defections or increase with
the accession of hitherto unknown aspirants. Many go and never return.
A few come back to breathe again the stimulating air of California, to
see with new eyes its fresh, vivid color, its poetry, its romance. To
have gone East and to have returned without abject failure is here, in
the eyes of the vulgar, Art's patent of nobility. Of those who have
been content to linger peaceably in the land of the lotus, some are
earls without coronets, but one and all share a fierce, hot, passionate
love of the soil. San Francisco has become a fetish, a cult. Under its
blue skies and driving fogs is bred the most ardent loyalty in these
United States. San Francisco is most magnificently herself of any
American city, and San Franciscans, in consequence, are themselves with
an abounding perfervid sincerity. Faults they have, lurid, pungent,
staccato, but hypocrisy is not of them. That vice is never necessary.
The party that gathered nightly at Fulda's was as remote from the world
as if it had been ensconced on a desert island. It was unconscious,
unaffected, sufficient to itself. Men and girls had come and gone since
it had formed, but the nucleal circle was always complete. Death and
desertions were unacknowledged--else the gloom would have shut down and
the wine, the red wine of the country, would have tasted salt with
tears. There had been tragedies and comedies played out in that group,
there were names spoken in whispers sometimes, there were silent toasts
drunk; but if sentiment was there, it was disguised as folly. Life
still thrilled in song. Youth was not yet dead. Art was long and
exigent.
It was their custom, after dinner, to adjourn to Champoreau's for _cafe
noir_, served in the French style. In this large, bare saloon, with
sanded floor, with its bar and billiard table, foreign as France, almost
always deserted at this hour save by their company, the genial _patron_
smiled at their gaiety, as he prepared the long glasses of coffee.
To-night, there were six at the round table.
Maxim, an artist unhailed as yet from the East, was, of all, the most
obviously picturesque, with a fierce mustached face and a shock of black
hair springing in a wild mass from his head to draggle in stringy locks
below his eyes, or, with a sudden leonine shake, to be thrown back when
he bellowed forth in song. He had been in Paris and knew the airs and
argot of the most desperate studies. His laughter was like the roar of
a convivial lion.
Dougal, with a dog-like face and tow hair, so ugly as to be refreshing,
full of common sense and kindness, with a huge mouth full of little
cramped teeth and a smile that drew and compelled and captured like a
charm--he sat next. Good nature and loyalty dwelt in his narrow blue
eyes. His slow, labored speech was seldom smothered, even in the wit
that enveloped it.
Most masculine and imperative of all, was Benton, with his blur of
blue-black hair, fine tangled threads, his melting, deep blue eyes,
shadowy with fatigue, lighted with vagrant dreams or shot with brisk
fires of passion. His hands were strong and he had an air of suppressed
power.
The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco,
seeing that the Athanaeum had already placed the laurels upon his
brow--he was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible.
He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy,
long fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and
narrow. Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now
he was teaching the company a new song--an old one, rather, for it was
an ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well
fitted to the temper of the assembly.
At one end of the table sat a young woman, _petite_, elf-like as a
little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling,
smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie
Dougal.
Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut,
classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making
her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel's hair curled unmanageably,
springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke
and a little self-conscious laugh escaped.
Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly
upright:
"Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"
he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm
and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time:
"Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"
then with his fist as before:
"For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"
and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang:
"_For_
"Thumbakin he can dance alone!"
They went through the song together, dancing Foreman, Middleman, and
Littleman, ending in a pianissimo. Then over and over they sang that
queer, ancient tune, till all knew it by heart.
Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and read it confidentially
to Elsie, who smiled and smiled. Starr recited his last poem while
Dougal made humorous comments. Maxim broke out into a French student's
_chanson_, so wildly improper that it took two men to suppress him.
Mabel giggled hysterically and began a long, dull story which, despite
interruptions, ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every one
wished he had listened.
Then Dougal called out:
"The cavalry charge! Ready! One finger!"
They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a forefinger, upon the
table.
"Two fingers!"
The sound increased in volume.
"Three fingers, four fingers, five!"
The crescendo rose.
"Two hands! One foot! BOTH FEET!"
There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles. Then, in diminuendo:
"One foot! One hand! Four fingers, three, two, one! Halt!"
The clatter grew softer and softer till at last all was still.
As Gay opened the door, Fancy heard a roar that increased steadily until
it became a wild hullabaloo. Looking in, she saw the six seated about
the table, the coffee glasses jumping madly with the percussion. The
noise was like the multitudinous charge of troopers. Then the tumult
died slowly away, the patter grew softer and softer, ending in a sudden
hush as seven faces looked up at her. Gay P. Summer's advent was
greeted with frowns, but Fancy gathered an instant acclaim from twelve
critical eyes.
She stepped boldly into the room and shed the radiance of her smile upon
the company.
"I guess this is where I live, all right!" she announced. "I've been
gone a long time, haven't I? Never mind the introductions. I'm Fancy
Gray, drifter; welcome to our fair city!"
They let loose a cry of welcome, and Dougal, rising, opened a place for
her between his chair and Maxim's.
"I'm _for_ her!" He hailed her with a good-natured grin. "She's the
right shape. Come and have coffee!"
"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.
Gay's reception was by no means as cordial as hers, which had been
immediate and spontaneous at the sound of her caressing, jovial voice
and the sight of her genial smile, which seemed to embrace each separate
member of the party. They made grudging room for him beside Elsie, who
gave him a cold little hand. Mabel bowed politely.
"Where'd you get her, Gay?" said Starr. "You're improving. She looks
like a pretty good imitation of the real thing."
"Oh, I'll wash, all right," said Fancy.
Gay P. proudly introduced her to the company. He played her as he might
play a trump to win the seventh trick. Indeed, without Fancy's aid, he
would have received scant welcome at that exclusive board. Many and loud
were the jests at Summer's expense while he was away. Many and soft
were the jests he had not wit enough to understand when he was present.
Philip Starr had, at first sight of him, dubbed him "The Scroyle," and
this sobriquet stuck. Gay P. Summer was ill versed in Elizabethan lore,
but, had his wit been greater, his conceit would still have protected
him.
He had already unloaded Fancy, though he was as yet unaware of it. She
was taken up with enthusiasm by the men, whom she drew like a magnet.
Mabel and Elsie watched her with the keenness of women who are jealous
of any new element in their group. It was, perhaps, not so much rivalry
they feared, for their place was too well established, as the admittance
into that circle of one who would betray a tendency toward those petty
feline amenities that only women can perceive and resent.
But Fancy Gray showed no such symptoms. She did not bid for the men's
attention. She made a point of talking to Elsie, and she managed
cleverly to include Mabel in the attention she received. Fancy, in her
turn, scrutinized the two girls artfully and made her own instantaneous
deductions. All of this by-play was, of course, quite lost upon the
men.
The talk sprang into new life and Fancy's eye ran from one to another
member of the group, dwelling longest upon Dougal. His ugliness seemed
to fascinate her; and, as is often the case with ugly men, he inspired
her instant confidence. She made up to him without embarrassment or
concealment, taking his hairy hand and caressing it openly. At this,
Elsie's eyelids half closed, but there was no sign of jealousy. Mabel
noticed the act, too, and her manner suddenly became warmer toward the
girl. By these two feminine reactions, Fancy saw that she had done
well.
They sang, they pounded the table; and, as an initiation, every man
saluted Fancy's cheek. She took it like an empress. Then, suddenly,
Dougal held up two fingers. Every one's eyes were turned upon him.
"_Piedra, Pinta?_" he cried, with a side glance at Fancy.
Every one voted. Mabel held up both her hands gleefully.
So was Fancy Gray, though she was not aware of the honor till afterward,
admitted to the full comradeship of the Pintos. It was a victory. Many
had, with the same ignorance as to what was happening, suffered an
ignominious defeat. Fancy's election was unanimous.
And for this once, in gratitude for his discovery, Mr. Gay P. Summer,
The Scroyle, was suffered to inflict himself upon the coterie of the
Pintos.
There were other honors in store for Fancy Gray.
Piedra Pinta is two hours' journey from San Francisco to the north, in
Marin County--a land of mountains, virgin redwood forests and
trout-filled streams. One takes the ferry to Sausalito, crossing the
northern bay, and rides for an hour or so up a little narrow-gage
squirming railroad into the canyon of Paper Mill Creek; and, if one has
discovered and appropriated the place, it is a mile walk up the track
and a drop from the embankment down a gravelly, overgrown slope, into
the camp-ground. Here a great crag rears its vertically split face,
hidden in beeches and bay trees. At its foot a flattened fragment has
fallen forward to do service as a fireplace. Beyond, there are more
boulders in the stream, which here widens and deepens, overhung by
clustering trees. Save when an occasional train rushes past overhead, or
a fisherman comes by, wading up-stream, the place is secret and silent.
Opposite, across the brook, an oat-field slopes upward to the country
road and the smooth drumlins beyond. A not too noisy crowd can here lie
hugger-mugger, hidden from the world.
To Piedra Pinta that next Saturday they came, bringing Fancy Gray, a
smiling captive, with them. The men bore blankets and books; the women
food and dishes enough for a picnic meal. They came singing, romping up
the track, big Benton first with the heaviest load. In corduroys and
jeans, in boots and flannel shirts they came. Little Elsie, like a girl
scout, wore a rakish slouch hat trimmed with live carnations, a short
skirt, leggings, a sheath knife swinging from her belt. Mabel had her
own pearl-handled revolver. The rest looked like gipsies.
They slid down the bank and debouched with a shout into the little
glade. Fancy entered with vim into the celebration. Not that she did
any useful work, that was not her field; she was there chiefly as a
decoration and an inspiration. She had dressed herself in khaki. Her
boots were laced high, her sombrero permitted a shower of tinted
tendrils to escape and wanton about her forehead. She found fragrant
sprays of yerba buena and wreathed them about her neck.
It was all new and strange to her, all delightful. She had seen the
artificial side of the town and knew the best and worst of its gaiety;
but here, in the open for almost the first time, she breathed deeply of
the primal joys of nature and was refreshed. Her curiosity was
unlimited; she played with earth and water, fire and air. She
unbuttoned the collar of her shirt-waist and turned it in, disclosing a
delicious pink hollow at her throat. She rolled up her sleeves,
displaying the dimples in her elbows. At the preparations for the
dinner she was an eager spectator, and when the meal was served, smoked
and sandy, and the bottles were opened, all traces of the fairy in her
disappeared; she was simple girl. She ate like a cannibal and ate with
glee.
The shadows fell. The nook became dusky, odorous, moist; the rivulet
rippled pleasantly, the ferns moved lazily in the night airs. The moon
arose and gave a mysterious argent illumination. The going and coming
ceased, the shouting and lusty singing grew still. The blankets were
opened and spread at the foot of the rock. Dougal and Elsie took their
places in the center and, the men on one side and the girls on the
other, they lay upon the ground and wrapped themselves against the
cooling air. The fire was replenished and its glare lighted up the
trees in planes of foliage, like painted sheets of scenery.
They lay down, but not to sleep. Dougal's coffee, black and strong,
stimulated their brains. The talk ran on with an accompaniment of song
and jest. One after another sprang up to sing some old-time tune or to
recite a familiar, well-beloved poem; the dialogue jumped from one to
the other. Some dozed and woke again at a chorus of laughter; some sat
wide-eyed, staring into the fire, into the darkness, or into one
another's eyes.
Maxim was prodigious. He blared forth rollicking airs, he did scenes
from _La Boheme_, posturing picturesquely against the flame, his long
black locks sweeping his face. Starr improvised while they listened,
rapt. Benton climbed high into a beech tree and there, invisible, he
recited _Cynara_ and quoted _The Song of the Sword_, while Dougal jeered
and fed the blaze. Mabel listened entranced and appreciative, and
ventured occasionally on one more long, dull story--her tale always
growing melodramatically exciting, as the attention of her listeners
wandered. Elsie sat and smiled and smiled, wide awake till three.
Forgotten tales, snatches of song, jokes and verses surged into Fancy's
head and one after another she shot them into the night. She, too,
arose and sang, dancing. Not since her vaudeville days had she
attempted it, but mounting to the spirit of the occasion, she thrilled
and fascinated them with her drollery.
She and Dougal were the last ones awake. They spoke now in undertones.
Maxim was snoring hideously, so was Benton. Starr lay with his mouth
open, Mabel was curled into a cocoon of blankets, flushed Elsie was
still smiling in her sleep.
At four the dawn appeared. They watched it spellbound, and as it turned
from a glowing rose to straw color, the birds began to twitter in the
boughs. Fancy shook off her lassitude.
"I'm going in swimming," she exclaimed, starting up. "Stay here,
Dougal--I trust to your honor!"
"I'll not promise," he replied. "One doesn't often have a chance to see
a nymph bathing in a fountain nowadays, but I have the artist's eye; it
will only be for beauty's sake--go ahead!" He kept his place,
nevertheless; the pool was invisible from the level of the camp-ground.
Fancy darted down the path to the wash of pebbles below. Dougal shook
Elsie into a dazed wakefulness.
Mabel's eyes opened sleepily.
"Fancy's gone in swimming," he whispered. "Don't wake up the boys."
Like shadows the two girls slid after her. Dougal lay down to sleep.
In half an hour he was awakened by their return, fresh, rosy, dewy and
jubilant. Elsie crawled to his side under the blankets; Fancy and Mabel
scrambled up the bank to greet the sun, chattering like sparrows. Maxim
rolled over in his sleep. Benton and Starr, back to back, dreamed on.
The sun rose higher and smote the languid group with a shaft of light.
The men rose at last, and, dismissing Elsie from the camp, took their
turns in the pool. At seven Dougal announced breakfast.
At high noon, after a climb up the hill and an hour of poetry, Fancy was
crowned queen of Piedra Pinta, with pomp and circumstance. She was
invested with a crown of bay leaves and, for a scepter, the camp poker
was placed in her hand. Dougal, as her prime minister, waxed merry,
while her loyal lieges passed before her to do her homage. She greeted
them one by one: The Duke of Russian Hill, with his tribute of three
square meals per week; Lord of the Barbary Coast; Elsie, Lady of Lime
Point, Mistress of the Robes; Sir Maxim the Monster, Court Painter; Sir
Starr of Tar Flat, Laureate; and Mabel the Fair, Marchioness of Mount
Tamalpais, First Lady of the Bedchamber, to keep her warm.
She issued many titles after that, as her domain increased, and as
"Fancy I," she always styled herself in signing her letters. Her royal
edicts were not often slighted.
For she was gay and young, and she was bold and free. Life had scarcely
touched her yet with care. This was her apotheosis. The scene went down
in the annals of the Pintos and the tradition spread. Her reign was
famous. Her accolade was a smile. Her homage was paid in kisses--and
in tears.
Yet Fancy Gray was not a girl to commit herself to any one particular
set. Her tastes were eclectic. She was essentially adventurous. It was
her boast that she never made a promise and never broke one--that she
never explained--that she liked everybody, and nobody. She guarded her
independence jealously, restless at every restraint. With the friend of
the moment she was everything. When he passed out of sight, she devoted
an equal attention to the next comer, and she was faithful to both.
She was often seen with Granthope dining or at the theater. Mabel and
Elsie whispered together, adding glances to smiles, and frowns to
blushes, summing them up according to the feminine rules of
psychological arithmetic. The men did not even wonder--it was none of
their business, and was she not Fancy Gray? When they were seen
together, they were conspicuously picturesque. Granthope had an air,
Fancy had a manner, the two harmonized perfectly.
Mr. Gay P. Summer, meanwhile, had by no means given up the chase. He
was not one to be easily snubbed, and the only effect of the slight put
upon him by the Pintos was to make him seek after Fancy still more
energetically, and while he paid court to her, to keep her away from the
attractions of that engaging set. Fancy accepted his attentions with
condescension. After all, a dinner was a dinner--her own way of putting
it was that she always hated to refuse "free eggs."
He still tried his best to draw her out, but when he asked her about
Granthope, she gave a passionate, indignant refutation of his
innuendoes.
"I owe that man everything, everything!" she exclaimed. "He took me
when I was walking the streets, hungry, without a cent, and he has been
good to me ever since! He's all right! And any one who says anything
against him is crossed off my list!"
This was at Zinkand's. The slur had been occasioned by the sight of
Granthope at table with a lady whom Gay knew rather too much about. It
happened that there was another group in the room that drew Fancy's
roving eye and nimble comment. She asked about the man with the pointed
beard.
"Oh, that's Blanchard Cayley--everybody knows him," Gay explained.
"He's a rounder. I see him everywhere. No, I don't know him to speak
to, but they say he's a clever chap. I wonder who that is with him,
though? I've seen her before, somewhere."
"I know," said Fancy; "that's Mrs. Page."
"H'm! Funny, every time I see her she's with a different man. She's
pretty gay, that woman."
"Is she? You're a cad to tell of it."
"Why? Do you know her?"
She scorned to answer.
On a Sunday night soon after, Gay invited her to dinner at Carminetti's.
She accepted, never having gone to the place, which was then in the
height of its prestige, a resort for the most uproarious spirits of the
town.
It was down near the harbor front, a region of warehouses, factories,
freight tracks and desecrated, melancholy buildings, disheveled and
squalid, that Mr. Summer took her. He pushed open the door to let upon
her a wave of light frivolity and the mingled odor of Italian oil and
wine permeated by an under-current of fried food. The tables were all
filled, some with six or eight diners at one board, and by the counter
or bar, which ran all along one side of the room, there were at least a
dozen persons waiting for seats. Gay walked up to bald-headed "Dave,"
the patron, who in his shirt-sleeves was superintending the confusion,
keeping an eye ready for rising disorder. After a quick colloquy, he
beckoned to Fancy, who followed him down between the gay groups to a
table in a corner. It was just being deserted by a short young hoodlum,
with a pink and green striped sweater, accompanied by a girl several
inches too tall for him, dressed in a soiled buff raglan and a triumphal
hat.
"Here we are," said Gay; "we're in luck to get a table at all, to-night.
But I gave Dave a four-bit piece and that fixed it."
Fancy sat down and looked about. "It is pretty gay, isn't it? It looks
as if it were going to be fun."
"Oh, you wait till nine o'clock," Gay boasted wisely. "They're not
warmed up to it yet. The 'Dago Red' hasn't got in its work. There'll
be something doing, after a while."
The walls were decorated with beer- and wine-signs in frames, and on
either side of the huge mirror hung lithographic portraits of Humberto
and the Queen of Italy. Opposite, a row of windows looking on the
street was hung with half-curtains of a harsh, disagreeable blue; over
them peeped, now and again, wayfarers or others who had dined too well,
rapping on the glass and gesticulating to those inside. All about the
sides of the room and upon every column, hats, coats and cloaks were
hung, making the place seem like an old-clothes shop. The floor was
covered with sawdust and the tables were huddled closely together.
For the most part the diners were all young--mechanics, clerks, factory
girls and the like though here and there, watching the sport, were
up-town parties, reveling in an unconventional air. The groups, now
well on in their dinner, had begun to fraternize. Here a young man
raised his wine-glass to a pretty girl across the room and the two drank
together, smiling, or calling out some easy witticism. In one corner, a
party of eight was singing jovially something about: "One day to him a
letter there did come," and anon, encouraged by the applause and the
freedom, a lad of nineteen, devoid of collar, closed his eyes, leaned
back and sang a long song through in a vibrant, harsh voice. He was
greeted with applause, hands clapped, feet pounded and knives clattered
on bottles till the _patron_ hurried from table to table quelling the
pandemonium. Waiters came and went in bustling fervor, dodging between
one table and another, jostling and spilling soup; at intervals a great
clanging bell rang and the apparition of a soiled white cook appeared at
the kitchen door ordering the waiters to: "Take it away!" The kitchen
was an arcade into which from time to time guests wandered, to joke with
the cook and beat upon the huge immaculate copper kettles on the wall.
The conversation at times became almost general, the party of songsters
in the corner leading in the exchange of persiflage. Two girls dining
alone, with hard, tired-looking eyes and cheap jewelry, began a duet;
instantly, from a company of young men, two detached themselves, plates
and glasses in hand, and went over to join them. A roar went up;
glasses rang again and Dave fluttered about in protest at the noise.
Fancy talked little. The crowd, the lights, the _camaraderie_
hypnotized her. She watched first one and then another group, picking
out, for Gay's edification, the prettiest girl and the handsomest man in
the room. She waved her hand slyly at the collarless soloist and
applauded two darkies who came in from outside to make a hideous clamor
with banjos. As she waited to be served, she nibbled at the dry French
bread and drank of the sour claret, watching over the top of her glass,
losing nothing.
In the middle of the room, Blanchard Cayley sat with three ladies. One
of them Fancy recognized as Miss Payson. Fancy's eyebrows rose slightly
at seeing her, and a smile and a nod were cordially exchanged. The
others Fancy did not know. They were both pretty women, well-dressed,
with evident signs of breeding, and, as the urn waxed freer, apparently
not a little embarrassed at being seen in such a place. Miss Payson
showed no such feeling in her demeanor, however much she may have been
amused or surprised at the spirit of the place. Blanchard Cayley divided
his attentions equitably amongst them, till, looking across the room, he
caught Fancy's errant glance. He smiled at her openly as if challenging
her roguery.
She boldly returned the greeting. Gay caught the glance that was
exchanged.
"See here, Fancy," he protested, "none of that now! He's got all he can
do to attend to his own table. I'll attend to this one, myself."
Now, this was scarcely the way to treat a girl like Fancy Gray. At her
first opportunity, she sent another smile in Cayley's direction. It was
divided, this time, by members of his own party and the women began to
buzz together. Gay was annoyed.
"There's something I like about that man," Fancy remarked presently.
"What'd you say his name was? That's the one we saw at Zinkand's, wasn't
it?"
"There's something I don't like about him. He'd better mind his own
business," Gay growled, now thoroughly provoked.
"You can't blame any one for noticing _me_, can you, Gay?" Her tone was
honey-sweet.
"I can blame you for flirting across the room when you're here with me!"
he replied fiercely.
Fancy opened her eyes very wide. "Indeed?" she said with a sarcastic
emphasis.
"That's right," he affirmed.
In answer, she cast another languishing glance toward Cayley. Cayley,
despite Clytie's entreating hand upon his arm, sent back an unequivocal
reply.
"Well," said Gay, rising sullenly, "I guess it's up to me to leave!" He
reached for his hat.
"Oh, Gay!" she protested in alarm, "you're not going to throw me down
before this whole crowd, are you?" Already their colloquy had attracted
the attention of the near-by tables.
He hesitated a moment. "Unless you behave yourself," he said finally.
His tone of ownership decided her.
"Run along, then!" She gave him a smile of limpid simplicity, but her
jaws were set determinedly. "I expect I can get some one to take care
of me. Don't mind me!"
Their discussion had not been unnoticed at Mr. Cayley's table. Clytie
was watching the pair interestedly, as if reading the motions of their
lips. Fancy caught her eye and flushed a little.
Gay's brows gathered together in a sullen look as he crowded his hat
upon his head savagely. He turned with a last retort:
"You'll be sorry you threw me down, Fancy Gray! You want too many men on
the string at once!"
He turned and left her, passing sulkily along the passages between the
tables with his hat on his head, till he came to the cashier, where he
paid the bill for two dinners with lordly chivalry. Then, without
looking back, he opened the door of the restaurant and went out.
An instant after, Fancy was on her feet. Gay's going had already made
her conspicuous and her flush grew deeper. Cayley watched her without
smiling, now, waiting to see what she would do. Beside him, Clytie
Payson sat watching, her lips slightly parted, her nostrils dilated,
absorbed, seeming to understand the situation perfectly, her eyes gazing
at Fancy as if to convey her sympathy. Fancy looked and saw her there,
and the sight steadied her. With all her customary nonchalance, with
all that jovial, compelling air of optimism which she usually radiated,
as if she were quite sure of her reception and came as an expected
guest, she sauntered carelessly over to the central table.
Her smile was dazzling as it swept about the board, meeting the eyes of
each of the women in turn. One by one it subjugated them. They even
returned it with trepidation, not too embarrassed to be keenly
expectant, waiting for the outcome. But it was for Clytie that Fancy
Gray reserved her warmest, deepest look. In that glance she threw
herself upon Miss Payson's mercy, and appealed to the innate chivalry of
woman to woman, to the bond of sex--a sentiment in finer women more
potent than jealousy.
Even before she spoke Clytie had arisen and stretched out her hand. In
a flash she had accepted what had run counter to all her experience, and
played up to Fancy's audacity with a spirit that ignored the crowd, the
eyes, the whispers.
Who, indeed, could resist Fancy Gray in such a fantastic, tiptoe mood?
Her act, audacious, even impertinent, was so delicately achieved, she
was so sure of herself and her own charm that it was dramatic, poetic in
its confidence, picturesque. But no one could have equalled Clytie as
she arose to meet such bravado, when she shook off her reserves and took
her hand at such a psychological game. Not even Fancy Gray, with all
her superb poise. On Fancy's cheek the color deepened--it was she who
blushed so furiously, now, not Clytie. In that flush she confessed
herself beaten at her own game.
"How do you do?" Clytie was saying. "We've been wishing all the evening
that we could have you with us. Do sit down, here, beside me--we'll
make room for you. I want you to meet Miss Gray, Mrs. Maxwell."
Something in the graciousness of her manner drew the other women up to
her chivalrous level. Mrs. Maxwell bowed, smiled, too, with a word of
welcome, so did Miss Dean as she was introduced. Fancy beamed.
Meanwhile Cayley had arisen. He was the most perturbed of all. He
offered his chair.
"You see what you've done, Mr. Cayley," said Fancy. "I've just been
jilted for the first time in my life, and it was all your fault. I'm
afraid I shall have to butt in and ask you to protect me!"
It was not Fancy but Clytie who had, apparently, most surprised him. He
gave a questioning look at her as he replied, not a little confused:
"Won't you sit down here in my place? There's plenty of room. I'll get
another chair--or," he stole another glance at Clytie, "I'll let you
have half of mine!"
"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.
Clytie smiled encouragingly. "I'll divide mine with you, too, if you
like."
"You're a gentleman! I'd much rather sit with you, Miss Payson; thank
you!" Then she looked at Clytie fondly. "I _thought_ I was right about
you! You _are_ a thoroughbred, aren't you?"
"We're educating Mr. Cayley, my dear." Clytie gave him a bright smile.
"He has a few things yet to learn about women."
"I plead guilty," said Cayley, watching the two with curiosity.
"Miss Gray and I are disciples of the same school. She gave me the
password." Clytie was fairly superb--she even outshone Fancy--she was
regal.
Fancy laughed. "You're the only one who knows it, that _I_ ever met,
though."
"Ah," said Clytie, "then that's the only way I can beat you--I believe
many women are initiated."
Fancy clapped her hands softly in pantomime. Then she turned to Mrs.
Maxwell and the others. "I hope I'm not out of the frying-pan into the
fire," she said. "Please let me down easy, ladies. If you don't make me
feel at home pretty quick, I'll be up against it I You don't really have
to _know_ me, you know. Only it looked to me like when he had three
such pretty women to take care of one more ought to be easy enough."
"We _were_ three pretty women before, perhaps, my dear, but now I'm
afraid we're only one!" said Clytie. She herself, kindled with the
spirit of adventure, and so adequately welcoming it, was irresistible.
Fancy blew a pretty kiss at her. "No man would know enough to say
anything as nice as that, would he? But I'm afraid I can't trot in your
class, Miss Payson. Why, every man in the room has been watching you
all the evening. I really ought to sit beside Mrs. Maxwell, though, to
show her off. It takes these brunettes to make me look outclassed,
doesn't it? I used to be a brunette myself, but I reformed. Mr.
Cayley, you may hold me on, if you like. And remember, when I kick you
under the table it's a hint for you to say something about my hands."
She laid them on the table-cloth ingenuously.
Clytie took one up and showed it to Mrs. Maxwell. "Did you ever see a
prettier wrist than that?" she said.
"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.