The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

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      "Yes." He looked her over approvingly.

      "No woman ought to be blue with a figure like mine, ought she?"

      He laughed. "I can't imagine your ever being blue, Fancy!"

      Fancy opened her eyes very wide.

      "There's a whole lot you don't know about women yet," she said sagely.

      "That's likely."

      "Am I to understand that I'm fired, then?" She tried to appear demure.

      "Not yet. I'm only too afraid you'll resign. It's queer you don't get married. You must have had lots of chances. Why don't you, Fancy?"

      "I never explain," said Fancy. "It only wastes time."

      He went over to her again and very affectionately boxed her ears.

      She freed herself, and turned her face up to him. "Frank," she said, "do you think I'm pretty?"

      "You're too pretty—that's the trouble!" he answered, smiling, as at a familiar trait.

      "No, but really—do you honestly think so?" Her face had again grown plaintive.

      "Yes, Fancy. Far be it from me to flatter or cajole with the compliments of a five-dollar reading, but as between friends, and with my hand on my heart, I assert that you are beautiful."

      "I don't mean that at all," said Fancy. "I want to be pretty. That's what men like—pretty girls. Beautiful women never get anywhere except into the divorce courts. Do say I'm pretty!"

      "Fancy, you know I'm a connoisseur of women. You are actually and absolutely pretty."

      "Well, that's a great relief, if I can only believe you. I have to hear it once a day, at least, to keep up my courage. Now that's settled, let's go to work."

      He went back to the fireplace and yawned. "All right. What's doing to-day?"

      "Full up, except from eleven to twelve."

      "Who are they?"

      Fancy jauntily flipped open the appointment book and ran her forefinger down the page.

      "Ten o'clock, stranger, Fleurette Heller. Telephone appointment. Girl with a nice voice."

      "Be sure and look at her," Granthope remarked; "I may want a tip."

      "Ten-thirty, Mrs. Page."

      Granthope smiled and Fancy smiled.

      "Do you remember what I told her?"

      Fancy looked puzzled. "What do you mean? About her husband?"

      "No, not that. The last time she came I tried a psychological experiment with her. I told her that normally she was a quiet, restrained, modest, discreet woman, but that at times her emotional nature would get the better of her; that she couldn't help breaking out and would suddenly let go. I thought she was about due this week. There's been something doing and she wants to tell me about it to appease her conscience. Give them what they want, and anything goes!"

      Fancy listened, frowning, the point of her pencil between her lips. "You don't need any of my tips on Mrs. Page," she said with sarcasm. "At eleven, Mr. Summer, whoever he is."

      "I don't care, if he's got the price."

      "It bores you to read for men, doesn't it, Frank? I wish you'd let me do it."

      As she spoke, the telephone bell on the desk rang, and she took up the receiver, drooping her head coquettishly.

      "Yes?" she said dreamily, her eyes on Granthope, who had lighted a cigarette.

      "Yes, half-past eleven o'clock, if that would be convenient. What name, please? ... No, any name will do..... Miss Smith? All right—good-by."

      She entered the appointment in her book, and then remarked decidedly, "She's pretty!"

      "No objections; they're my specialty," Granthope replied; "only I doubt it."

      "Never failed yet," said Fancy.

      Granthope looked at his watch, then passed through a red anteroom to his studio beyond. Fancy began to draw little squares and circles and fuzzy heads of men with mustaches upon a sheet of paper. In a few moments the palmist returned, his morning coat replaced by a black velvet jacket tight-fitting and buttoned close.

      "Oh, Fancy, take a few notes, please; you didn't get that last one yesterday, I believe."

      She reached for a lacquered tin box, containing a card catalogue, withdrew a blank slip and dipped her pen in the ink. Then, as he stopped to think, she remarked:

      "I don't see why you go to all this trouble, Frank. Nobody else does. You've a good enough memory, and I think it's silly. I feel as if I were a bookkeeper in a business house."

      "One might as well be systematic," he returned. "There's no knowing when all this will come in handy. I don't intend to give five-dollar readings all my life. I'm going to develop this thing till it's a fine art. I've got to do something to dignify the trade. This doesn't use nearly all that's in me. I wish I had something to do that would take all my intellect—it's all too easy! I don't half try. But it's a living. God knows I don't care for the money—nor for fame either, for that matter. Fame's a gold brick; you always pay more for it than it's worth. I suppose it's the sheer love of the game. I have a scientific delight in doing my stunt better than it has ever been done before. Some play on fiddles, I play on women—and make 'em dance, too! Some love machinery, some study electricity—but the wireless, wheel-less mechanics of psychology for mine. Practical psychology with a human laboratory. Pour the acid of flattery, and human litmus turns red with delight. Try the alkali of disapproval, and it grows blue with disappointment. I give 'em a run for their money, too. I make life wonderful for poor fools who haven't the wit to do it for themselves. I peddle imagination, Fancy."

      "You get good prices," Fancy said, smiling a bit sadly. "There are perquisites. There aren't many men who have the chances you do, Frank. Women are certainly crazy about you, and now that you're taken up by the smart set, I expect you will be spoiled pretty quick." She shook her head coquettishly and dropped her eyes.

      He shrugged his shoulders. "I should think you would be almost ashamed of being a woman, Fan, sometimes," he said. "They are all alike, I believe."

      Fancy bridled. Then she bit her lip. "You'll meet your match some day!"

      "God, I hope so! It'll make things interesting. Nothing matters now. I haven't really wanted anything for years; and when you don't want anything, Fancy, the garlands are hung for you in every house."

      "Did you ever have a conscience, Frank?"

      "Not I. I shouldn't know what to do with it, if I had one. I don't see much difference between right and wrong. We give them what they want, as clergymen do. It may be true and it may be false. So may religion. There are a hundred different kinds—some of them teach that you ought to kill your grandmother when she gets to be fifty years old. Some teach clothing and some teach nakedness. Some СКАЧАТЬ