As the girl went in for her reading, Mrs. Page walked into the reception-room, and nodded condescendingly. She was a dashing woman of thirty-five, full of the exuberance and flamboyant color of California. Her hair was jet black and glossy, massively coiled upon her head; her features were large, but regular and well formed; her figure somewhat voluptuous in its tightly fitting tailor suit of black. She was a vivid creature, with impellent animal life and temperament linked, apparently, to a rather silly, feminine brain. Her mouth was large, and in it white teeth shone. She was all shadows and flashes, high lights and depths of velvety black. From her ears, two spots of diamond radiance twinkled as she shook her head. When she drew off her gloves, with a manner, more twinkles illuminated her hands. Still others shone from the cut steel buckles of her shoes. She was somewhat overgrown, flavorless and gaudy, like California fruit, and her ways were kittenish. Her movements were all intense. When she looked at anything, she opened her eyes very wide; when she spoke she pursed her lips a bit too much. Altogether she seemed to have a superfluous ounce of blood in her veins that infused her with useless energy. Fancy eyed her pragmatically, added her up, extracted her square root and greatest common divisor. The result she reached was evident only by the imperious way in which she invited her to be seated and the nonchalant manner in which, after that, she gazed out upon Geary Street. Mrs. Page, however, would be loquacious. "Shall I have to wait long?" she asked. "I have an engagement at eleven and I simply _must_ see Mr. Granthope first! It’s very important." "I don’t know," said Fancy coolly. "It depends upon whether he has an interesting sitter or not. Sometimes he’s an hour, and sometimes he’s only fifteen minutes." She spoke with a slightly stinging emphasis, examining, meanwhile, the spots on her own finger-nails. "Oh," said Mrs. Page, and it was evident that the remark gave her an idea as to her own personal powers of attraction. "I thought Mr. Granthope treated all his patrons alike." "Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t," was Fancy’s cryptic retort. She watched the effect under drooped lashes. The effect was to make Mrs. Page squirm uneasily, as if she didn’t know whether she had been hit or not. She took refuge in the remark: "Well, I hope he will give me a good reading this time." "It all depends on what’s in your hand," Fancy followed her up, smiling amiably. Mrs. Page minced and simpered: "Do you know, somehow I _hate_ to have him look at my hand, after what he said before. He told me such _dreadful_ things, I’m afraid he’ll discover more." "Why do you give him a chance, then?" said Fancy coldly. "Oh, I hope he’ll find something better, this time!" "Weren’t you satisfied with what he gave you?" Fancy asked. "I have found Mr. Granthope usually strikes it about right."