"Miss Payson," Fancy said, avoiding her eyes, "there’s a man I’m simply crazy about—I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t explain. I never explain. But you can be sure that there’s nothing doing with Frank, at any rate. I didn’t intend to breathe it to a soul, but I know I can trust you—I’m really—" she drew a quick breath and her eyelids fluttered—"I’m—engaged, Miss Payson!" Clytie was wearing, that day, a little gold chain from which hung a tiny swastika. As she listened, she unfastened it and took it off and threw it about Fancy’s neck. Fancy stopped in surprise. "Won’t you let me give you this?" Clytie said eagerly. "Don’t ask me why—I want you to have it and keep it for my sake. You know I have more jewelry than I can wear, but I have always been very fond of this little chain. It belonged to my mother." Fancy’s eyes filled suddenly and her lips parted. Her hand flew up to caress the chain affectionately. Then she cast down her eyes and a timid smile trembled on her lips. "I accept!" said Fancy Gray. As she looked off at the water she lifted the chain softly to her lips and kissed it. Then, loosening the collar of her waist, she allowed the chain to drop inside to hang touching her warm pink breast. Then slowly she turned her head and showed Clytie a new expression, childlike, demure, embarrassed. Her eyes, fluttering, went from Clytie’s eyes to Clytie’s hair, to her slender, gracile hands. Then, with a wistful emphasis, she said: "Miss Payson, do you think I’m pretty?" There was no need, this time, for her to define the adjective. "Do you want me to tell you exactly?" Clytie answered. "I never saw a woman yet to whom I couldn’t tell her best points better than she could herself." Fancy nestled a little nearer, warming herself at Clytie’s smile. "I guess I can stand it. I’ll try to be brave," she said. Clytie looked her over critically. "First, I’d say that your ears are the most deliciously shaped, cream-white, and the lobes are pure pink with a dab of carmine laid on as if with a brush. The hair behind them has curls like little claws clutching at your neck—and I don’t blame them! Your cheeks look as if a rose-leaf had just been pressed against them." "I believe I’m going to get the truth at last," Fancy murmured. "Oh, it takes a woman, don’t it!" In spite of this jaunty speech the pink had grown to scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in a delighted, flattered embarrassment.