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."