"Did you really--where?--comic opera or vaudeville?"
"Oh, never mind where--I made a hit all right." She leaned back in her
chair, clasping her hands behind her head, smiling to herself. A tress
of hair had fallen across her ear; it did not mar her beauty.
"I'll bet you got every hand in the house, too."
Fancy became suddenly convulsed with giggles. She sipped her glass and
choked as she tried to swallow the wine.
Cayley passed this mysterious mirth without comment. "Granthope looks as
if he had been an actor, too."
"Oh, yes, we played together--but only as amateurs." She smiled
mischievously.
Cayley followed her up. "He has a fine presence; I should think he'd be
good at it. He has lots of women running after him, hasn't he?"
"Oh, he did have--women to throw at the birds--women to warm up for
supper--women to burn, and he burned 'em, too. But he won't stand for
them now," said Fancy.
"What's the matter? Is he stung?" He filled her glass again.
"Yep. He's cut 'em all out--even me. That's why I'm here."
"But he works them, though?"
"Oh, no, Blan, Frank's straight, sure he is. He doesn't graft any more.
He hasn't for--some time."
"I don't believe that," said Cayley.
"Oh, of course, he investigates cases sometimes, but he don't work with
cappers the way he did. He's going in for high society now, and he
doesn't need to do anything but wear a swallow-tail and get up on his
hind legs and drink tea."
Blanchard took a chance shot. "I hear he's trying to marry a rich
girl."
Fancy, for the first time, seemed to come to herself. She looked hard at
Cayley.' "What are you driving at, Blan? What do you want to talk about
that for? It's all off between me and Frank, but I'm not going to knock
him. He's all right, Frank is. I'd rather talk about Me, please! Talk
about Fancy, Blan, won't you? Fancy's so tired of talking shop."
Her elbow was upon the table and her little round chin in her palm, as
she looked at him under drooping, languorous lids. "How pretty am I,
Blan? Tell me! There's nothing quite so satisfactory, after a good
dinner, as to hear how pretty you are."
He looked quizzically at her, and quoted: "'_Tout repas est exquis qui a
un baiser pour dessert_.'"
"What does that mean, Blan? I don't understand Dago talk."
"It means that you're pretty enough to eat, and I'm going to eat you,"
he replied, making a motion toward her.
She put him off gaily, but only as if to delay the situation. "Oh,
pshaw! haven't you had enough to eat yet? That won't go with me, Blan;
I've got to have real eighteen carat flattery put on with a knife. I can
stand any amount of it. I love it! Whether you mean it or not--I don't
care, so long as it sounds nice, I'll believe it. I'll believe anything
to-night. Now, how do you like my eyes, Blan?"
He took a long, close look at them, then with an amused smile he said:
"Mountain lakes at sunset shot with refracted fires. Or, electric light
on champagne--will that do?"
Fancy pouted. "I knew a fellow once who told me they were just like the
color of stones in the bed of the brook ... When I was up at Piedra
Pinta, I looked in a shallow part of the creek--where I could see my
reflection and the bottom at the same time..." Her voice died off in a
dreamy monotone; then she looked up at him again sleepily.
"How about my nose?"
"_Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus_,"
he quoted.
"Whatever does that mean?" She opened her eyes as wide as she could.
"Is my poor old nose as big as that?" She felt of it solemnly.
"It is straight and strong and full of character. And _Thy lips are like
a thread of scarlet, ... thy teeth are like a flock of sheep ... which
come up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins_."
"That's _very_ swell, indeed," said Fancy, "is it original?"