The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

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THE PALMIST AND FANCY GRAY

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      Fancy Gray was the lady's name and the lady's hair was red. Both were characteristic of her daringly original character, for, as Fancy's name had once been Fanny, Fanny's hair had once been brown. Further indication of Miss Gray's disposition was to be found in her eyebrows, which were whimsically arched, and her mouth, which was scarlet-lipped and tightly held. Another detail of significance was her green silk stockings, rather artfully displayed to lend a harmony to her dark green cloth tailor-made suit, which fitted like a kid glove over Miss Gray's cunningly rounded little body. Her eyes were brown and bright; they were as quick as heliograph flashes, but could, when she willed, burn as softly as glowing coals of fire. Her face seemed freshly washed, her complexion was translucently clear, modified only by the violet shadows under her eyes and an imperceptible tint of fine down on her upper lip. Her hands, well beringed and well kept, were fully worth the admiration which, by her willingness to display them to advantage, she seemed to expect on their account.

      In New York, a good guesser would have put her age at twenty-three; but, taking into account the precocious effect of the California climate, nineteen might be nearer the mark. She was, at all events, a finished product; there was no evidence of diffidence or gaucherie about Fancy Gray. She appeared to be very well satisfied with herself. If, as she evidently did, she considered herself beautiful, her claim would undoubtedly be acknowledged by most men who met her for the first time. On those more fastidious, she had but to smile and her mouth grew still more generous, showing a double line of white teeth, those in the lower jaw being set slightly zigzag, as if they were so pretty that it had been wished to put in as many as possible—her cheeks dimpled, her eyes half closed—and she triumphed over her critic. For there was something more dangerous than beauty in that smile; there was an elfin humor that captured and bewildered—there was warmth and welcome in it. It made one feel happy.

      As she sat at her desk in the waiting-room she could look across the corner of Geary and Powell Streets to catch the errant eye of passing cable-car conductors, or gaze, in abstraction, at pedestrians crossing Union Square, or at the oriental towers of the Synagogue beyond. With the bait of a promising smile, she caught many an upward glance. Fancy Gray was not in the habit of hiding her charms, and she levied tribute to her beauty on all mankind. She gazed upon women, however, far less indulgently than upon men; never was there a more captious observer of her sex. A glance up and a glance down she gave; and the specimen was classified, appraised, appreciated, condemned, condoned or complimented. Not a pin missed her scrutiny, not a variation of the mode escaped her quest for revealing evidence. A woman could hardly pass from contact with Fancy's swift glance without being robbed, mentally, of everything worth while that she possessed in the matter of novelty in fashion or deportment. Fancy appropriated the ideas thus gained, and made use of them at the earliest opportunity. The waiting-room bore, upon the outside, the legend:

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      | FRANCIS GRANTHOPE, PALMIST |

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      Inside, where Fancy sat daily from ten to four, the apartment was walled and carpeted in red. Upon the walls, painted wooden Chinese grotesque masks, grinning or scowling against the fire-cracker paper, hung, at intervals, from black stained woodwork. Between the two windows was a plaster column bearing the winged head of Hypnos; at the other end of the room was a row of casts of hands hanging on hooks against a black panel. The desk in the corner was Fancy's station, and here she murmured into the telephone, scribbled appointments in a blank-book, read The Second Wife, gazed out into the green square, or manicured her nails—according as the waiting-room chairs were empty, or occupied with men or with women. Whatever company she had, she was never careless of the light upon her or the condition of her tinted hair.

      It was a cool, blustering afternoon in August. San Francisco was at its worst phase. The wind was high and harsh, harassing the city with its burden of dust. Over the mountains, on the Marin shore, a high fog hung, its advance guard scudding in through the Golden Gate, piling over the hills by the Twin Peaks and preparing its line of battle for a general assault upon the peninsula at nightfall. In the streets men and women clung to their hats savagely as they passed gusty corners, and coat collars were turned up against the raw air. Summer had, so far, spent its effort in four violently hot days, when the humid atmosphere made the temperature unbearable. Now the weather had flung back to an extreme as unpleasant; open fires were in order. There was one now burning in Granthope's reception-room, to which Fancy Gray made frequent excursions. She was there, making a picture of herself beside the hearth, having resolutely held her pose for some time in anticipation of his coming, when Francis Granthope arrived.

      Tall, erect and able-bodied, with the physique of an athlete, and a strong, leonine head covered with crisp, waving, black hair, Francis Granthope had the complement of the actor's type of looks; but his alertness of carriage and his swift, searching glance distinguished him from the professional male beauty. Fine eyes of deep, rich blue, fine teeth often exposed in compelling smiles, a resolute mouth and a firm, deeply cleft chin he had; and all these attractions were set off by his precise dress—gloves, bell-tailed overcoat, sharply creased trousers, varnished boots and silk hat. A short mustache, curling upward slightly at the ends, and a small, triangular tuft of hair on his lower lip gave him a somewhat foreign aspect. He had an air, a manner, that kept up the illusion. Men would perhaps have distrusted him as too obviously handsome; women would talk about him as soon as he had left the room. Stage managers would have complimented his "presence"; children would have watched him, fascinated, reserving their judgment. He seemed to fill the room with electricity.

      He sent a smile to Fancy, half of welcome, half of amusement at her picturesque posture, and, with cordial "Good morning!" in a mellow barytone, removed his overcoat and hat, putting them into a closet near the hall door. He reappeared in morning coat, white waistcoat and pin-checked trousers, with a red carnation in his buttonhole. He held his hands for a moment before the fire, then looked indulgently at his blithe assistant.

      Now, one of Fancy's charms was a slender, pointed tongue. This she was wont to exhibit, on occasion, by sticking it out of her mouth coquettishly, and shaking it saucily in the direction of her nostrils—a joyous exploit which was vouchsafed only upon rare and intimate occasions. This, now, she did, tilting her head backward to give piquancy to the performance.

      Granthope laughed, and went over to where she sat.

      "You're a saucy bird, Fancy," he commented, leaning over her, both hands upon the desk. "Do you know I rather like you!"

      Her face grew drolly sober; her whimsical eyebrows lifted.

      "I don't know as I blame you," she replied. "You always did have good taste, though."

      "I believe that I might go so far as to imprint a salute upon your chaste brow!"

      "I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

      He stooped over and kissed her. She was graciously resigned.

      "Thank you, Frank," she said demurely. "Small contributions gratefully received." She tucked her head into the corner of his arm, and he looked down upon her kindly.

      "Poor little Fancy!" he said softly.

      "Have you missed me, Frank?"

      "Horribly!"

      "Don't laugh at me!"

      "How can I help it, O toy queen?"

      "Am I so awfully young?"

      "You're pretty juvenile, Fancy, but you'll grow up, I think."

      She was quite sober now. "Oh, there's an awful lot of time wasted in growing up," she said. Then she squirmed her head so that she