"Why, I’ve just heard of him, that’s all. He’s a friend of Miss Payson’s." "She isn’t—fond of him, is she?" Fancy demanded. "Oh, I hope not! Why?" "Nothing. Only, I met him, one night, at Carminetti’s. Gay had just thrown me down hard. He came round, afterward, and apologized." Fancy looked across the room abstractedly as she talked. Upon the wall were strung a collection of empty chianti bottles in their basket-work shells, a caricature by Maxim, a circus poster and other evidence of her recent conversion to the artistic life. She spoke with a queer introspective manner. "I had a queer feeling about Mr. Cayley. You know, for all I’m such a scatterbrain, I do like a man with a mind. I like to look up to a man. He’s awfully well-read. Of course, he isn’t as clever as you, but he sort of fascinates me—I don’t know why. He interests me, although I can’t understand half he says. I suppose he makes me forget. There’s nothing like knowing how to forget. But you’re sure Miss Payson isn’t too fond of him?" "I’d like to be surer," said Granthope. He, too, was looking fixedly across the room—at the mottoes and texts upon the wall, on the mantel, and over her bed—"Do it Now!" "Nothing Succeeds like Success"—and such platitudes as, printed in red and black, are sold at bookshops for the moral education of those unable to think for themselves. Fancy slid gently off the bed, and dropped to the floor in front of him. Her hand stole fondly for his, and clasped it, petting it. "How is she, Frank?" He put his hand on her hair and smoothed it affectionately. "Fine, Fancy, fine." "Oh—I hope it’s all right, Frank." "I don’t know, Fancy. You’d hardly recognize me, these days. I’m losing my sense of humor. I’m becoming a prig, I think." Fancy laughed. "Well, there’s plenty of room in that direction. But I don’t think she’d mind your being a devil occasionally. Women don’t have to be saints to be thoroughbreds. And there’s many a saint that would like to take a day off, once in a while!" "Have you seen Vixley, lately?" Fancy grew serious. "No. Is he still working the old man?" "Yes, I suppose so. I saw him to-day. I offered him a thousand dollars to leave town, Fancy." Fancy looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "Why, Frank! What do you mean? A thousand dollars? Why, you haven’t got that much, have you?" "No. Not yet. But I’ll get it, somehow." "You mean—that you’re trying—to save Payson—on her account, Frank?" He avoided her glance. "On her account—and perhaps my own." Fancy rose impulsively and put her arms about him. "Do let me hug you, Frank, just once!" He saw her eyes grow soft. She released herself quickly, as if the embrace, simple as it was, hurt her. She stood in front of him and watched him soberly. "Frank, _I_ never could make you—" She stopped, the tears welling in her eyes. Then she turned and ran out of the room.