Fancy rose impulsively and put her arms about him. "Do let me hug you,
Frank, just once!"
He saw her eyes grow soft. She released herself quickly, as if the
embrace, simple as it was, hurt her. She stood in front of him and
watched him soberly.
"Frank, _I_ never could make you--" She stopped, the tears welling in
her eyes. Then she turned and ran out of the room.
He rose, too, and paced up and down, wondering at her mood. His track
was short, for the roof sloped on one side, and the place was encumbered
with Fancy's paraphernalia and furniture. His eyes fell, after a while,
upon a cigar box on her bureau. It stood upright, under the mirror, and
had little doors, glued on with paper hinges, so that the two opened,
like the front of a Japanese shrine of Buddha. He went to it and looked
at it. Thoughtlessly, with no idea of committing an indiscretion,
little suspecting that it could hold anything private or sacred, he
swung the little doors open. Then he shut them hastily and walked to
the window with a clutch at his heart. Inside he had seen his own
photograph. Before it was a little glass jar with a few violets. They
were fresh, fragrant. Lettered upon a strip of paper pasted on the
inside was the inscription:
No Fair Falling In Love.
He walked away hurriedly to stare hard out of the window.
She came into the room again as he composed himself, and her face, newly
washed, was radiant. She reseated herself upon the bed, and, taking up
a pair of stockings, proceeded to darn a small hole in the heel.
"Have you got a position, Fancy?"
She laughed. "Vixley wrote me a note and told me he had a job for me if
I wanted it, but I turned him down. You couldn't guess what I _am_
doing, Frank."
"What?"
"Detective." She looked up innocently.
"You don't mean--"
"No! Just little jobs for the chief of police, that's all. I'm
investigating doctors who practise without a license, that's all. I
say, Masterson had better look out or he'll get pulled."
"I'm sorry you haven't anything better, Fancy. Miss Payson said she'd
get you a place in her father's office if you'd go. Would you?"
"No." Fancy's eyes were upon her needle.
"Why not?"
"Frank," she said, "do you remember asking me to inquire about that
soldier the little girl with freckles wanted to find?"
"Yes. I thought you said that the ticket agent at the ferry had left,
and so you couldn't get anything."
"He was only off on a vacation. He's come back, and I saw him
yesterday. He remembered that soldier perfectly--I don't see how
anybody could fail to--he must look awful. He said he bought a ticket
for Santa Barbara."
"That's good. I hope she'll come in again," said Granthope. "She was a
nice little thing."
"She was real, Frank, and that's what few people are, nowadays."