"I wish I were. I'm only a drifter, Frank." She kept on with her
darning, not looking up.
"Fancy, I want to do something for you. Won't you let me help you?"
"I'm all right, Frank. I told you I wanted to have some fun before I
settled down again. But if I ever do need anything, I'll let you know."
"Promise me that--that whenever you want me, you'll send for me, or come
to me, Fancy!"
She looked up into his eyes frankly. "I promise, Frank. When I need
you, I'll come."
She was a blither spirit after that, till he took his leave. It had
been an eventful day for Francis Granthope. He had swung round almost
the whole circle of emotions. But not quite.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE FIRST TURNING TO THE LEFT*
At five o'clock the next afternoon Blanchard Cayley sitting at a window
of his club, opening the letters which he had just taken from his box in
the office. He had his hat on, a trait which always aroused the ire of
the older members. Beside him, upon a small table, was a glass of
"orange squeeze," which he sipped at intervals.
At this hour there were some twenty members in the large room reading,
talking or playing dominoes. Others came in and went out occasionally,
and of these more than half approached Cayley to say effusively: "Hello,
old man, how goes it?" or some such similarly luminous remark. This was
as offensive to Cayley as the wearing of his hat in the club was to the
old men. Nothing annoyed him so much as to be interrupted while reading
his letters. Yet he always looked up with a smile, and replied:
"Oh, so-so--what's the news?"
To be sure, Cayley's mail to-day was not so important that these
hindrances much mattered. The study of Esperanto was his latest fad.
With several Misses, Frauleins and Mademoiselles on the official list of
the "Esperantistoj," and whom he suspected of being young and beautiful,
he had begun a systematic correspondence. The greater part of the
answers he received were dull and innocuous, written on picture
post-cards. From Odessa, from Siberia, Rio de Janeiro, Cambodia,
Moldavia and New Zealand such missives came. Those which were merely
perfunctory, or showed but a desire to obtain a San Francisco post-card
for a growing collection, he threw into the waste-basket. Others, whose
originality promised a flirtation more affording, he answered
ingeniously.
A man suddenly slapped him on the shoulder.
"Hello, Blanchard, have a game of dominoes?"
"No, thanks."
"Come and have a drink, then."
"No, thanks, I'm on the wagon now."
"Go to the devil."
"Same to you."
The man grinned and dropped into a big chair opposite Cayley and lighted
a cigar. Then his glance wandered out of the window. Cayley put the
bunch of letters in his pocket and yawned.
"By Jove, there's a peach over there," said the man. Cayley turned and
looked.
"In front of the shoe store. See?"
She was standing, looking idly into the show window--a figure in gray
and red. Scarlet cuffs, scarlet collar, scarlet silk gloves. Her form
was trim and her carriage jaunty.
It was Fancy Gray--drifting. She stood, hesitating, and shot a glance
up to the second story of the club house where the men sat. She caught
Cayley's eye and smiled, showing her white teeth. Her eyebrows went up.
Then she turned down the street and walked slowly away.
"Say," said the man, "was that for you or for me, Blan?"
"I expect it must have been for me. Good day."
"Something doing? Well, good luck!"
Cayley walked briskly out of the room, got his hat, and ran down the
front steps. Fancy was already half a block ahead of him, nearing
Kearney Street. He caught up with her before she turned the corner.
"I've been looking for you for three weeks," he began.
She paused and gave him a saucy smile. "You ought to be treated for
it," was her somewhat elliptical reply.
"I'm afraid I am pretty slow, but I've got you now. It seems to me
you're looking pretty nimble."
"Really? I hope I'll do."
"Fancy Gray, you'll indubitably do. Won't you come to dinner with me
somewhere, where we can talk?"
"I accept," said Fancy Gray.
"Are you still with Granthope?"