Fancy smiled at last, and released herself. "Yes, I’ve spent my life in straightening out other people’s snarls," she said. "Sometime I hope some one will be able to straighten mine. But I’ve got a date, really." "Oh, do tell me that you’re as happy as I am," Clytie exclaimed. "I’ve been so selfish, I’m afraid! I don’t know who he is, but I’m sure he must be fine, if you care for him. How I wish I could help you, dear!" "The only way you could, I’m afraid, is by lending me some of your brains—and I’m afraid they wouldn’t fit my noddle. He’s awfully clever, and I feel like a fool when I’m with him." "But you do really love him, don’t you?" Clytie asked anxiously. Fancy nodded gravely. "I guess yes. As much as I can love anybody. I’m afraid of him. That’s one sign, isn’t it?" "And you can’t tell me who he is?" "Not yet." "Fancy, when you’re married, I’ll give you a wedding." "I accept!" said Fancy Gray. She turned to go, but hesitated a moment, as if she could hardly make up her mind to ask the question, yet couldn’t go without asking it. "Miss Payson," she said finally, "did you tell Frank that I had been here?" "Of course I did!" "What did he say?" "He said that it was like you. That you always played fair." "Good-by!" Fancy said, and suddenly breaking through the reserve that had so far constrained her, she laid her cheek for a moment to Clytie’s. Clytie kissed her. The two walked down-stairs arm in arm. At the front door Fancy paused and said: "Take my advice, Miss Payson, and don’t explain. Never explain. If you once get into that habit you’re lost. It only wastes time. Get right down to business and stay there. Your head belongs on his shoulder, remember that. All Frank will want to know is what you’re going to do next. Keep him guessing, my dear, but never explain! Now, I’m going to try and get home before it rains." She turned up her collar, gave a quick toss to her head, and walked rapidly down the garden path. At the gate she turned, gaily gave a mock-military salute, a relic of her old vaudeville manner, then ran down the steps. Clytie watched her till she had disappeared. Then she went up-stairs and changed her frock. Fancy’s sage advice was wasted. There were explanations, a torrent of them, when Francis Granthope came, explanations voluble, apologetic, impetuous, half-tragic, semi-humorous. The equilibrium of Clytie’s mind was completely overturned and its readjustment came only after a prolonged talk. Every trace of the priestess, the princess, the divinity was gone forever, now. She was more like a mother rejoicing at the restoration of a lost child, for whose absence she blamed her own neglect and carelessness. It was all too delightful for Granthope to wish to cut it short. He was hungry for her.