Part 10

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.