"That's the girl," said Heyl, and patted her hand. "You'll
like me--presently. After you've forgotten about that
sniveling kid you hated." He stepped back a pace and threw
back his coat senatorially. "How do I look?" he demanded.
"Look?" repeated Fanny, feebly.
"I've been hours preparing for this. Years! And now
something tells me--This tie, for instance."
Fanny bit her lip in a vain effort to retain her solemnity.
Then she gave it up and giggled, frankly. "Well, since you
ask me, that tie!----"
"What's the matter with it?"
Fanny giggled again. "It's red, that's what."
"Well, what of it! Red's all right. I've always considered
red one of our leading colors."
"But you can't wear it."
"Can't! Why can't I?"
"Because you're the brunest kind of brunette. And dark
people have a special curse hanging over them that makes
them want to wear red. It's fatal. That tie makes you look
like a Mafia murderer dressed for business."
"I knew it," groaned Heyl. "Something told me." He sank
into a chair at the side of her desk, a picture of mock
dejection.
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