"I suppose you’re afraid Gay’ll bore you. I’ll manage him. I’ve got him trained. Or, if you say so—we’ll go alone? Just you and me. I can get rid of them, some way." He shook his head decidedly. "Did you have such a dull time the last time over at the Hermitage?" she tempted. "We might go there. I don’t know _when_ I’ll have another chance. Edgar will be back soon." She raised her brows meaningly. "It’s awfully good of you—but I can’t, possibly." "You might say you’d _like_ to!" "I don’t really care to, if you must have it!" She bridled and tossed her head. "_Oh_, very well!" she sniffed, and was off in a huff. Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the two lower drawers. The first contained a collection of photographs of women. He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at one occasionally, or turning it over to see what was written upon it. The most were inscribed, on the back, or scrawled across the face, "To Mr. Granthope"—several "To Francis"—one or two "To Frank, with love." All types of beauty were represented, all sorts of costumes, all ages, all phases of pretty women’s vanity. He looked at some with a puzzled expression, searching his memory for a clue to their identity. At a few he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned. Once or twice his face softened to tenderness or pity. There was one of Fancy amongst them, showing her in costume. It had been taken years ago, while she was acting. He looked at it with a sort of wonder, she seemed so young, so girlish. On the back was written, "N.F.F.I.L." He put it back into the drawer and gathered up the others. He made a heap of them and threw them upon the fire, then dropped into the arm-chair to watch them burn. The flames passed from face to face, licking up the features. It was like a mimic death. The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into bunches. They were all addressed in feminine handwriting, mostly of the fashionable, angular sort. The envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco, but there were not a few from Eastern cities and abroad. One out of five bore special delivery stamps. A scent of mingled perfumes came from them. He cut the packages open and threw them into the wastebasket without stopping to read a word. He poked up the fire, and, carrying the basket over, fed in the letters, a handful at a time. The flames roared up the chimney, sending out a fierce heat. It took an hour to destroy the whole collection. A mass of distorted, blackened, filmy sheets remained.