Part 11

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.

Fancy prompted her. "For a reading, of course--but what else?"

"I don't know," said Clytie seriously. "Really I don't."

"That's what I thought!" said Fancy. Then her troubled brow cleared, and she turned to Cayley.

"I must say 'fare-thee-well, my Clementine,'" she said. "You certainly came to the scratch nobly. I hope it wasn't all Miss Payson's prompting, though!"

"Next time I hope I'll be able to bring you," he answered. "I'm sorry I can't take you home now."

"Who said I was going home?" she smiled. Then she looked at him, too, and spoke to him with a variation of the quizzical tone she had used toward Clytie. "I don't know what there is about you that makes such a hit with me--what is it?"

"The dagoes say I have the evil eye," he replied.

She laughed. "That's it! I _thought_ it was something nice!"

Then she rose and bowed debonairly to Mrs. Maxwell and Miss Dean. "Good night, ladies, this is where I disappear. I'm afraid you've impregnated me with social aspirations. Watch for me at the Fortnightly!"

The collarless youth stretched a glass toward her in salutation and sang: "Good-by, Dolly Gray!" There was a burst of laughter that drew all eyes to Fancy Gray.

Cayley held her coat for her, and as she turned to him with thanks, a sudden mad impulse stirred her; she audaciously put up her lips to be kissed. He did not fail her. The ladies at the table looked on, catching breath, stopping their talk. A waiter, passing, stood transfixed. Every one watched. Then a cheer broke out and a clapping of hands all over the restaurant.

Fancy Gray bowed to her audience with dignity, as if she were on the stage. Then, with a comprehensive nod to her entertainers, she passed demurely down the aisle between the tables. Every eye followed her.

At the counter she turned her head to see Blanchard Cayley still standing by his place. She came hurriedly back as if drawn by some magic spell, blushing hotly, with a strange look in her eyes. She looked up at him as a little girl might look up at her father. The room was hushed. It was too much for that audience to comprehend. The act had almost lost its effrontery; the audacity had become, somehow, pathos.

Fancy walked like a somnambulist, her eyes wide open, staring at Blanchard. He had turned paler, but stood still, with his gaze fastened upon her, reveling, characteristically, in a new sensation. The ladies in his party did not speak. Nobody spoke. The room was like a well-governed school at study hour, every eye fixed upon Fancy Gray. Whatever secret emotion it was that drew her back, it was for its moment compelling, casting out every trace of self-consciousness. She seemed to show her naked soul. She reached him, and again he put his arms about her and kissed her full on the lips. Again the tumult broke forth.

In that din and confusion she slipped back to the door. There was another hush. Then the crowd gasped audibly and tongues were loosened in a babel of exclamations. With a cry, some one pointed to the window. There stood Fancy Gray, pressing through the glass, histrionically, one last kiss to Cayley--and disappeared into the night. Half a dozen men jumped up to follow her, and turned back to account for a new silence that had abruptly fallen on the room.

Blanchard Cayley was still standing. He had snatched a wine-glass from the table, and now, with a silencing gesture, he held it above his head. He was perfectly calm, he had lost nothing of his usual elegance of manner.

"I don't know who she is, but here's to her!" he called out to the roomful of listeners. "Bottoms-up, everybody!"

He drank off his toast. Glasses were raised all over the room. Men sprang upon their chairs, put one foot on the table and drank Fancy Gray's health. Then the crowd yelled again.

In the confusion Mrs. Maxwell leaned to Clytie. "I don't know, my dear, whether I'll dare to chaperon you _here_ again!" She herself was as excited as any one there.

Frankie Dean's thin lips curled in a sneer. "Oh, they call this Bohemia, don't they! Did you ever see anything so cheap and vulgar in your life? I feel positively dirty!"

Cayley watched for Clytie's answer. It came with a jet of fervor. "Why," she exclaimed, "don't you see it's real? It's _real_! It isn't the way we care to do things, but they're all alive and human--every one of them!"

"Bah! It's all a pose. They're pretending they're devilish."

"I don't care!" Clytie's eyes fired. "Even so, there's a live person in each of them--they're just as real as we are. I never understood it before. Look under the surface of it--there's blood there!"

"It's San Francisco!" said Cayley, "that explains everything. Oh, this town!" He sat down shaking his head.

The old _patron_ bustled excitedly through the room.

"Take-a de foot off de table! Take-a de foot off de table!" he protested. "You spoil the table clot'--you break-a de dishes! I don't like dat! Get down, you! Get down!"

*CHAPTER VI*

*SIDE LIGHTS*

"Mrs. Chenoweth Maxwell would be very glad to see Mr. Francis Granthope next Friday evening at nine o'clock for an informal Chinese costume supper. Kindly arrive masked."

This invitation marked a climacteric in Granthope's social career. It was supplemented by an explanation over the telephone that left no doubt in the mind of the palmist as to the genuineness and friendliness of its cordiality. He had appeared already at several assemblies of the smarter set and had, by this time, a considerable acquaintance with the fashionable side of town. Of the information thus acquired he had made good use in his business. He had always gone, however, in his professional capacity as a paid entertainer; and no matter how considerately he had been treated, the fact that he was not present as a guest had always been obvious. He was in a class with the operatic star who consents to sing in private and maintains her delicate position of unstable social equilibrium with sensitive self-consciousness. In his rise from obscurity, at first, he had been pleased with such invitations, seeing that they brought him money and an increasing fame. He was now sought after as a picturesque and personable character. Women evinced a fearful delight in his presence; they treated him sometimes as if he were a handsome highwayman, tamed to drawing-room amenities, sometimes as they treated those mysterious Hindus in robes and turbans who occasionally appeared to prate of esoteric faiths in the salons of the Illuminati.

Granthope's sense of humor and his cynical view of life, had, so far, been sufficient to preserve his equanimity at the threshold of fashionable society. His equivocal position was tolerable, for he knew well enough what a sham the whole game was, and how artificial was the social position which permitted a woman to snub him or patronize him in public, and did not prevent her following him up in private. He had seen ladies raise their eyebrows at his appearance in the Western Addition, who had visited him for a chance to talk to him with astonishing egotism.

There was a strain in him, however, the heritage of some unknown ancestry, that, since meeting Miss Payson, began to give him more and more discomfort in the presence of such company. He had risen above the level of the mere professional entertainer, and had become fastidious. Clytie had met him upon terms of equality. Her frankness had flattered him, and her implied promise of friendship was like the opening of a door which had, hitherto, always been shut to him.

Mrs. Maxwell's bid, therefore, was a distinct advance, and he welcomed it, not so much because it unlocked for him a new sort of recognition, as that it furthered the game he had in hand. He could scarce have defined that game to himself. He was playing neither for position nor money nor power--his sport was perhaps as purely intellectual as that of chess, a delight in the pitting of his mind against others.

Mrs. Maxwell, with the tact of a woman of sensibility, had made it plain to him that he was invited for his own sake, upon terms of hospitality. As a lion, yes, she could not deny that. She confessed that she wished to tell people that he was coming--but he would not be annoyed by requests for entertainment. With another, he might have suspected that this was only a subterfuge to avoid the necessity of paying him his price, but Mrs. Maxwell's character was too well known to him for that possibility to be entertained.

He set himself, therefore, to obtain a costume for the affair at the "House of Increasing Prosperity," known to Americans as the shop of Chew Hing Lung and Company. With the assistance of the affable and discerning Li Go Ball, the only Chinese in the quarter who seemed to know what he required, Granthope selected his outfit, a costume of the character worn by the more prosperous merchant class of Celestials.

Granthope had fitted up the room next beyond his studio for a bed-chamber and sitting-room, access to it being had through the heavy velvet arras concealing the door between the two apartments. The place was severely masculine in its appointments and order, but bespoke the tasteful employment of considerable money. Here he had his library also, for since his earliest youth he had been a great reader. Prominent on its shelves were many volumes of medical books, and, to offset this sobriety, the lives and memoirs of the famous adventurers of history--Casanova, Cagliostro, Fenestre, Abbe Faublas, Benvenuto Cellini, Salvator Rosa, Chevalier d'Eon.

A massive Jewish seven-branch candlestick illuminated the place this evening, splashing with yellow lights the carved gilded frame of a huge oval mirror, glowing on the belly of a bronze vase, enriching the depths of color in the dull green walls, smoldering in the warm tones of the great Persian rug on the floor, twinkling upon the polished surface of the heavy mahogany table in the center of the room. But it was concentrated chiefly upon the gorgeous oriental hues where his Chinese costume was flung, flaming upon the couch. There the colors were commingled as on an artist's palette, cold steel blue, pale lemon yellow, olive green that was nearly old gold, lavender that was almost pink in the candle-light, a circle of red inside the cap, and flashes of pale cream-colored bamboo paper here and there.

He had already put on the silken undersuit, a costume in itself, with its straight-falling lines and complementary colors. Fancy Gray was helping him with the other garments, enjoying it as much as a little girl dressing a doll, trying on each article herself first and posing in it before the mirror.

First, she wrapped the bottom of his lavender trousers about his ankles, over white cotton socks, tying them close with the silk bands, carefully concealing the knot and ends as Go Ball had instructed him. She held the black boat-shaped satin shoes for him to put on. Next she tied about his waist the pale yellow sash so that both ends met at the side and hung together in two striped party-colored ends. Then the short, padded jacket, and over all this the long, steel-blue, brocaded silk robe, caught in at the waist with a corded belt. Lastly the olive-green coat patterned with brocaded mons containing the swastika, and with long sleeves almost hiding the tips of his fingers. Upon its gold bullet-shaped buttons she hung the tasseled spectacle-case and his ivory snuff-box.

"Oh, Frank, I forgot!" said Fancy, as she paused with his wig of horse-hair eked out with braided silk threads, in her hand. "Lucie was here to-day."

Granthope was at the mirror, disguising himself with a long, drooping mustache and thin goatee. He put down his bottle of liquid gum and turned to her.

"What did she say?"

"Why, she said she didn't have time to wait, and didn't want to tell me anything."

"Why didn't she write?"

"Said she was afraid to. You're to manage some way to see her to-night, if you can, and she has a tip for you."

"H'm!" Granthope, with Fancy's assistance, drew on the wig, and clapped over his black satin skullcap with its red coral button atop. Then he paused again reflectively.

"It must be something important. If I can only get hold of some good scandal in this 'four hundred' crowd I can have some fun with 'em."

"I should be afraid to trust these ladies' maids; they might give you away any time, and then where'd you be? That would be a pretty good scandal, itself." Fancy shook her head.

"Aren't they all in love with me?" he said, smiling grimly.

Fancy looked dubious. "That's just the trouble. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Granthope now laughed outright. "Fancy, when you get literary you're too funny for words."

She bridled, stuck out her little pointed tongue at him, and walked into the front office, where she sat down to attend to some details of her own work. At last she finished her writing and went to the closet to put on her hat and jacket.

"Oh, Frank!" she called out.

"Yes, Fancy!"

"You don't think I'm jealous, do you?"

"Yes!" he laughed.

She appeared at the doorway and called again:

"Mr. Granthope!" He was busy, and did not answer.

"Mr. Granthope!"

He looked up, now, to see her put her thumb to her nose with a playfully derisive gesture, such as gamins use.

He put his head back and laughed.

Then she looked at him seriously, saying, "When I am, you'll never know it. I'm not afraid of ladies' maids. When you really get into your own class it will be time enough for me to worry. But I wish you wouldn't use those girls. They're all cats, and they'll scratch!"

She was standing before the mirror inside the closet door, with her hat pin between her lips, adjusting her toque to the masses of her russet hair, when there came a knock at the hall door. She looked round and raised her eyebrows, then, after closing the door to the anteroom of the studio, she called "Come in!"

Madam Spoll, in a black silk gown covered with a raglan, entered. She wore a man's small, low-crowned, Derby hat trimmed with a yellow bird's wing.

"How d'you do?" said Fancy, not too cordially.

"Good evening," Madam Spoll panted; then, as her breath was spent with climbing the stairs, she dropped into a chair and gasped heavily. Fancy went on with her preparations without further attention to her visitor.

"Frank in?" was Madam Spoll's query as soon as she could breathe.

"Meaning Mr. Granthope?" said Fancy airily.

"You know who I mean well enough!" was her pettish reply.

"Oh, _do_ I?"--and Fancy, her costume now in readiness for the street, walked jauntily into the anteroom and knocked at the door. "Madam Spoll is here to see you," she called out.

"Just a moment," he answered.

Fancy, pulling her jacket behind, wriggling, and smoothing down her skirt over her hips, walked to the window and cast a glance out. Then she slammed the drawers of her desk, put a hair-pin between the leaves of her novel, straightened her pen-holders on the stand, stoppered a red-ink bottle, and marched out without looking to the left or to the right.

Madam Spoll glared at her in silence till she had gone; and then, with an agility extraordinary in so stout a woman, she sprang to the closet, opened the door and picked up an envelope lying on the floor. It had been opened. She took the letter out, gave it a hurried glance and then returned to her seat, stuffing the paper up under her basque.

The letter was short enough for her practised eye to master the contents almost at a glance. It ran:

My dear Mr. Granthope:--I hope you didn't take offense at my frankness the other day--if I was too candid don't misinterpret it and my interest in you. Sometime I may explain it more intelligently, but for the present believe me to be, Your friend, CLYTIE PAYSON.

Granthope came out after she had concealed the note. He was fully dressed and almost unrecognizable in his costume. He walked gracefully, with the light-footed stride of a mandarin, and saluted her with mock gravity. Madam Spoll stared at him with her mouth open. For a moment she did not appear to know him. Then she chuckled.

"For the land's sakes, what are you up to now, Frank? Doing the Chinese doctor's stunt and selling powdered sea-horses?"

He laughed at her surprise. "No, I'm doing society," he explained.

"Do 'em good, then! Lord, you are a-butting in this time, ain't you! I wouldn't know you from a Sam Yup highbinder on a Chiny New Year in that rig! What is it, a fancy-dress ball at the Mechanics' Pavilion?"

"Worse than that," he laughed; "this is a private supper-party in costume and I am a guest."

"Lord, you are getting on, for fair! You ain't been conning them swell girls for nothing, have you? And, to be frank with you, I always thought you was after something very different. I was kind of afraid they'd spoil you, too. It's a good graft, Frank, and if I can do anything to give you a lift, just say the word."

"Thanks," he said dryly, taking a seat in front of her and pulling his long sleeves up to his wrist.

She kept her eyes upon him, as if fascinated by the gorgeousness of his costume, seemingly a little in fear of his elegant manners as well. Then she broke out, pettishly:

"Say, Fancy's getting pretty fresh, seems to me. She's a very different girl from what she was when she used to play spook for us. She was glad enough once to be polite--butter wouldn't melt in her mouth them days!"

"Oh, you mustn't mind Fancy; she's all right when you get used to her."

"She's pretty, if she is sassy," the medium acknowledged. "I can hardly blame you, Frank. I s'pose you find a good use for her. She seems to be pretty fond of you."

Granthope scowled. "Never mind about her. She's a great help to me here, and I like her--that's enough for you. You didn't come here to talk about Fancy Gray."

"I should think your ladies would object, though," the medium pursued. "It looks kind of funny, don't it? She stays here pretty late, it seems to me, if any one was to notice it. Some ladies don't like that sort of thing; they get jealous. Fancy's too pretty by half!"

"That'll be about all about Fancy Gray. Suppose we change the subject."

"Very good then; we'll change it to another girl that's as pretty. How would Miss Payson do to talk about?"

"What about her?"

"A whole lot about her. How are you getting along with her, for the first thing?"

Granthope smiled with an air of satisfaction, but contented himself with remarking, "Oh, I'm getting on all right. I can attend to my own end of the game, thank you. I've handled women before."

"More ways than one, eh?"

"She's not that kind. Don't you believe it!"