"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?"