Perturbed as he was by this new proof of her intuition, he refused to
admit it. After all, it might have been merely her quick observation.
At any rate, he would make another attempt to pit his cleverness against
her sapience.
"Oh, we only went up to see Mr. Maxwell's books. He has a first edition
of Montaigne there." He was for a moment sure that she was only
jealous.
She bent her calm eyes upon him. There was no weakness in her mouth,
though it seemed more lovely in its tremulous distress. The upper lip
quivered uncontrolled; the lower one fell grieving, as she said:
"I asked nothing. I want only honesty in what you do tell me."
This time he was fairly amazed. The hit was deadly. He dared not
suspect that she had taken a chance shot. He was too humbled to attempt
any denial, knowing how useless it would be in the face of her
discernment. Yet she had showed nothing more than disapproval or
distress. Her reproof could scarcely be called an accusation, and her
chivalry touched him.
"I don't know what you will think of me," he said.
"Oh, I've heard so much worse of you than that," she said, "and it
hasn't prevented my wanting to be friends with you. I hope only that
you will never misinterpret that friendliness. You don't think me bold,
do you?"
"I wish you were bolder."
"Oh, you don't know my capacity yet. But, really, do you understand?
It's that feeling, you know, that in some way we're connected, that's
all. It's unexplainable, and I know it's silly of me. I'm not trying
to impress you."
"But you are!"
In answer, she smiled again, and again that flood of delight came over
him rendering him unable, for a moment, to do anything but gaze at her.
Luckily just then Cayley returned with a glass of water; at the same
time, the order was given by Mrs. Maxwell to unmask.
Clytie drew off her visor immediately. As Granthope watched her he felt
the quality of his excitement change, transmuted to a higher psychic
level. Somehow, with her whole face revealed, with her serene eyes
shining on him, he was less in the grip of that craving which had held
him prisoner. It fled, leaving him more calm, but with a deepened, more
vital desire. The completed beauty of her face now thrilled him with a
demand for possession, but the single note of passion was richened to a
fuller chord of feeling. The mole on her cheek made her human, and
almost attainable.
That feeling gave him a new and potent stimulus, as, under his hostess'
direction, he offered Clytie his arm into the supper-room, and took a
place beside her. It buoyed him with pride when he looked about at the
gaily clad guests and noticed, with a quickened eye, the distinction of
her face and air, comparing her with the others. That dreamy, detached
aspect in which he had seen her before had given way now to a fine glow
of excitement which stirred her blood. How far she responded to his
enthusiasm he could not tell; she was, at least, inspired with the
novelty of the scene--the gaudy dresses, the warm red lights of
monstrous paper lanterns, the odors of burning joss-sticks, the table,
flower-bedecked and set out with strangely decorated dishes, and the
monotonous, hypnotic squeak and clang and rattle of a Chinese orchestra
half-way up the stairs.
All trace of her annoyance had gone from her now, and that unnamable,
untamed spirit, usually dormant in her, had retaken possession of her
body. She was more jubilantly alive than he had thought it possible for
her to be. He dared not attribute her animation to his presence,
however, gladly as he would have welcomed that compliment. It was the
spell of masquerade, no doubt, that had liberated an unusual mood,
emboldening her to show those nimble flashes of gallantry. At any rate,
that revelation of her under-soul was a piquant subject for his mind to
think on; there was an evidence of temperament there which tinctured her
fragile beauty with an intoxicating suggestion. It was a sign of
unexpected depths in her, a promise of entrancing surprises.
For the first time in his life he lacked the audacity to woo a woman
boldly. There had never been enough at stake before to make him count
his chances. There had been everything to win, nothing to lose. Women
had solicited his favor, but there was something different in Clytie's
approaches toward familiarity. She spoke as with a right-royal and
secure from suspicion, with a directness which of itself made it
impossible for him to take advantage of her complaisance. He was put,
in spite of himself, upon his honor to prove himself worthy of her
confidence. There was, besides, a social handicap for him in her
assured position--he could see what a place she held by the treatment
she received from every one--while he was in his novitiate at such a
gathering, newly called there, his standing still questionable. But,
most of all, to make their powers unequal, was his increasing fear of
her as an antagonist with whom he could not cope intellectually. He,
with all his clever trickery and his practical knowledge of psychology,
was like a savage with bow and arrow; she, with her marvelous intuition,
like a goddess with a bolt mysteriously and dangerously effective.
Already his instinct accepted this relation, but his brain was still
stubborn, seeking a refuge from the truth. He was to have, even as he
sat there with her, another manifestation.
Clytie sat at his left hand. Mrs. Page, at his right, had been assigned
to the bald, red-faced gentleman with white mustache, who had so
profanely refused to make a fool of himself by wearing a Chinese
costume. His sprightly, flamboyant partner was ill-pleased with her
lot. She proceeded to spread an airy conversational net for Granthope,
endeavoring to trap him into her dialogue, with such patent art that
every woman at the table noticed her tactics.
Granthope, however, shook her off with a smile and a joke, as if she
were an annoying, buzzing fly. Still she hummed about him, leaving her
partner to himself and his food. However clever and willing Granthope
might have been, ordinarily, at such an exchange of persiflage, it was
all he could do to parry her thrusts and at the same time keep up with
Clytie. But she, noticing Mrs. Page's game, was mischievous enough, or,
perhaps, annoyed enough, to give the woman her chance and submit to a
trial of strength. So, as if to give Granthope the choice between them,
she turned to her left-hand neighbor, Fernigan, who, in his female
costume, had kept that end of the table, by his wit, from interfering
with her colloquy.
Granthope was in a quandary, fearing to be inextricably annexed. Mrs.
Page at this moment increased his dilemma by casting a languishing look
at him and pressing his foot with hers under the table.
All that was flirtatiously adventurous in him boiled up; for Mrs. Page
was, in her own way, a beauty, and, as he had reason to know, amiable.
He drew away his foot, however, and as he did so, gave a quick inward
glance at himself, wondering, and not a little amused, at the change
that had taken place in him. Novelty is, in such dalliance, a prime
factor of temptation--it was not a lack of novelty, however, which made
her touch unwelcome, for he was, in his relations with the woman, at
what would be usually a parlous stage. He had already been gently
reproved for his weakness--but it was not the smart of that disapproval
that withheld him. He had begun to fear Clytie's vision--yet he was not
quite ready to admit her infallible. His self-denial, then, was
indicative of an emotional growth. He smiled to himself, a little proud
of the accompaniment of its tiny sacrifice.
Clytie, turning to him, rewarded him with a smile, and, leaning a
little, said under her breath:
"I'm so glad that you find me more worth your while."
He could but stare at her. Mrs. Page was quick enough to see, if not
hear, what had happened; she turned vivaciously to the gentleman in
evening dress.