The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

at him. "You've been awfully good to me, Frank!" Her tone was wistful.

      "You deserve more than you will ever get, I'm afraid," was his answer as he patted her hair.

      "I think you do like me a little."

      He shook his finger at her. "No fair falling in love!"

      She laughed. "I believe you're afraid, Frank!"

      "I don't know what I'd do without you, Fancy. We've been through a good deal together, first and last, haven't we?"

      "Yes, we've had a good time. I'd like to do it all over again."

      "Heavens, no!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't! There's enough ahead. From what I've seen of life, things don't really begin to happen till you're thirty, at least. All this will seem like a dream."

      "Sometimes I hope it will." Fancy was looking away, now. Her gaze returned to him after a moment of silence. "Don't you ever think of getting out of this, Frank? You're too good for these fakirs, really you are! Why, you could mix with millionaires, easy! And you've got a good start, now. They like you. You've got the style and the education and the 'know' for it."

      He went back to the fireplace, standing there with his hands behind his back.

      "Oh, this is amusing enough. What does it matter, anyway? There are as big fools and shams in society as there are in my business. Look at the women that come down here, and the things they tell me! Why, I know them a good deal better now than I should if I were on their calling-lists and took tea with them! But you are right, in a way. I suppose some day I must quit this and take to honest theft."

      "Don't say that, Frank! I hate you when you're cynical."

      "What else can I be, in my profession?"

      "Oh, I do want you to quit, Frank, really I do, and yet, I hate to think of it. What should I do? I'd lose you sure! I could never make good with the swells. I'm only a drifter."

      "Oh, you can't lose me, Fan; we've pulled together too long. You could make good all right. You've got a pose and a poise that some ladies would give their teeth for. I don't believe you've ever really been surprised in your life, have you?"

      "I guess not." Fancy shook her head thoughtfully. "When I am surprised, it'll be a woman who'll do it. No man can, that's sure."

      "No. I fancy you know all there is to know about men. I wish I did. You'll do, Fancy Gray!" He approached her and playfully chucked her under the chin. Then he looked at her gravely. "I wonder why you're willing to drudge along here with me, anyway. You could get a much better position easily—with your face—and brains."

      "And figure. Don't forget that!" Fancy shook her finger at him.

      "Yes." He looked her over approvingly.

      "No woman ought to be blue with a figure like mine, ought she?"

      He laughed. "I can't imagine your ever being blue, Fancy!"

      Fancy opened her eyes very wide.

      "There's a whole lot you don't know about women yet," she said sagely.

      "That's likely."

      "Am I to understand that I'm fired, then?" She tried to appear demure.

      "Not yet. I'm only too afraid you'll resign. It's queer you don't get married. You must have had lots of chances. Why don't you, Fancy?"

      "I never explain," said Fancy. "It only wastes time."

      He went over to her again and very affectionately boxed her ears.

      She freed herself, and turned her face up to him. "Frank," she said, "do you think I'm pretty?"

      "You're too pretty—that's the trouble!" he answered, smiling, as at a familiar trait.

      "No, but really—do you honestly think so?" Her face had again grown plaintive.

      "Yes, Fancy. Far be it from me to flatter or cajole with the compliments of a five-dollar reading, but as between friends, and with my hand on my heart, I assert that you are beautiful."

      "I don't mean that at all," said Fancy. "I want to be pretty. That's what men like—pretty girls. Beautiful women never get anywhere except into the divorce courts. Do say I'm pretty!"

      "Fancy, you know I'm a connoisseur of women. You are actually and absolutely pretty."

      "Well, that's a great relief, if I can only believe you. I have to hear it once a day, at least, to keep up my courage. Now that's settled, let's go to work."

      He went back to the fireplace and yawned. "All right. What's doing to-day?"

      "Full up, except from eleven to twelve."

      "Who are they?"

      Fancy jauntily flipped open the appointment book and ran her forefinger down the page.

      "Ten o'clock, stranger, Fleurette Heller. Telephone appointment. Girl with a nice voice."

      "Be sure and look at her," Granthope remarked; "I may want a tip."

      "Ten-thirty, Mrs. Page."

      Granthope smiled and Fancy smiled.

      "Do you remember what I told her?"

      Fancy looked puzzled. "What do you mean? About her husband?"

      "No, not that. The last time she came I tried a psychological experiment with her. I told her that normally she was a quiet, restrained, modest, discreet woman, but that at times her emotional nature would get the better of her; that she couldn't help breaking out and would suddenly let go. I thought she was about due this week. There's been something doing and she wants to tell me about it to appease her conscience. Give them what they want, and anything goes!"

      Fancy listened, frowning, the point of her pencil between her lips. "You don't need any of my tips on Mrs. Page," she said with sarcasm. "At eleven, Mr. Summer, whoever he is."

      "I don't care, if he's got the price."

      "It bores you to read for men, doesn't it, Frank? I wish you'd let me do it."

      As she spoke, the telephone bell on the desk rang, and she took up the receiver, drooping her head coquettishly.

      "Yes?" she said dreamily, her eyes on Granthope, who had lighted a cigarette.

      "Yes, half-past eleven o'clock, if that would be convenient. What name, please? ... No, any name will do..... Miss Smith? All right—good-by."

      She entered the appointment in her book, and then remarked decidedly, "She's pretty!"

      "No objections; they're my specialty," Granthope replied; "only I doubt it."

      "Never failed yet," said Fancy.

      Granthope looked at his watch, then passed through a red anteroom to his studio beyond. Fancy began to draw little squares and circles and fuzzy heads of men with mustaches upon a sheet of paper. In a few moments the palmist returned, his morning coat replaced by a black velvet jacket tight-fitting and buttoned close.

      "Oh, Fancy, take a few notes, please; you didn't get that last one yesterday, I believe."

      She reached for a lacquered tin box, containing a card catalogue, withdrew a blank slip and dipped her pen in the ink. Then, as he stopped to think, she remarked:

      "I don't see why you go to all this trouble, Frank. Nobody else does. You've a good enough memory, and I think it's silly. I feel as if I were a bookkeeper in a business house."

      "One might as well be systematic," he returned. "There's no knowing when all this will come in handy. I don't intend to give five-dollar readings all my life. I'm going to develop this thing till it's a fine art. I've got to do something to dignify the trade. This doesn't use nearly all that's in me. I wish I had something to do that would take all my intellect—it's all too easy! I don't half try. But it's a living. God