"Make it Fancy, straight. Then I’ll be more natural. I’m always stiff and stupid when people call me Miss Gray. I always feel as if they were talking about me behind my back." Fancy’s smile broke out now, as if in spite of herself. "I’d love to call you Fancy! It’s good of you to let me!" Clytie answered. Her smile was as delicious, in this gallant interchange. Fancy’s smile seemed as much a part of her natural expression as the brightness of her open eyes; it was embracing, like a baby’s. Clytie’s had the effect of a particularly gracious favor, almost a condescension, a special gift of the moment. Fancy stopped again at the entrance to the library. "Say, this is awfully orderly," she said, "haven’t you got some place that isn’t so tidy and clean? I’m afraid I wouldn’t be comfortable here, and I want to talk to you." Clytie looked at her amusedly. "So you’re one of those persons who think dust is artistic? Come up into my workroom, then. You’ll find that untidy enough." Up-stairs they went, to the workroom. "My!" said Fancy. "If you call this place untidy, you ought to see my room! Why, it’s as neat as a pin!" She entered, nevertheless, and looked about her with curiosity at everything. "Haven’t you a looking-glass here?" she asked in astonishment. "No, but I’ll get you one." Fancy laughed. "I couldn’t live an hour without a mirror," she confessed. "You’re really queer, aren’t you! And you don’t even wear jewelry! I’m afraid modesty isn’t my favorite stunt. It’s very becoming to you, though. I suppose it doesn’t go with painted hair." She sighed. "I don’t believe that even you could improve on nature, Fancy!" "I’m sure nature intended me for a blonde, and got careless. Did you ever know a brunette who didn’t want to be a blonde?" She looked at Clytie’s tawny hair with evident admiration. Clytie shook her head, smiling. "I’d give you my hair for your complexion." "Done!" Fancy rubbed her handkerchief across her pink cheeks, and handed the bit of cambric to Clytie. After this comedy pantomime, she took the little silver watch from her chatelaine pin, opened the back door, where, inside, was a bright and shiny surface, and regarded her face, pouting. Then she looked across at Clytie. "You’re so pretty, Miss Payson! You’re four times and a half as pretty as I am!" Clytie ventured to touch her little finger to the dent in Fancy’s upper lip. Fancy retreated a step. "My dear," Clytie asserted, "if I had _that_, I’d be sure that men would be crazy for me till I was seventy years old!" Fancy shook her head. "I guess I can’t beat that. That’s what Gay calls ’the pink penultimate.’ And the worst of it is, I suppose it’s true! But I’ll never be seventy if I can help it." She turned away, suddenly grown serious. The room grew dark. It was as if Fancy’s mood had turned off the sunshine. "What are you doing, now?" Clytie asked. "Oh, just drifting." Fancy’s voice was not hopeful.