"Ah, I know you better!" She grew blithe, and a mischievous smile
appeared on her lips. Her eyes twinkled as she said archly: "Perhaps I
may say that I know myself better, too. I'm vainer than you seem to
think, and you're not at all complimentary. Don't you think--don't you
think that--perhaps--I myself had something to do with your attentions
to me?" She put her head on one side and looked at him with mock
coquetry.
His eyes feasted upon her beauty. "I won't be banal enough to say that
you are different from every woman I have ever known, or that you're the
only woman I ever loved, though both of those things are true enough.
If I had ever loved any other woman, probably I should feel just the
same about you as I do now. But no woman has ever stirred me mentally
before. You have given me myself--nobody else could ever have done
that. I have nothing to give you in return--nothing but twenty-odd
mistaken, misspent years."
"And how many more to be wonderfully filled, I wonder? You're only a
child, and I must teach you. Can you trust me? Remember that I knew
you when you were a little boy."
"I wonder what will become of me? I suppose I shall get on somehow. It
doesn't interest me much yet, but I suppose it will have to be
considered. I'll fight it out alone." He looked up suddenly. "When do
you go East?"
She smiled. "I came down here to tell you that I should leave on
Saturday."
He jumped up with a bitter look and walked to the window.
She looked over to him with her eyes half shut and a delectable
expression upon her lips. "But I've decided not to go--at all!"
She almost drawled it.
In an instant he was back at her side, borne on a flood of happiness.
For a moment he looked at her hard. His eyes went from feature to
feature, to her hands, her hair in silent approval. Then he exclaimed
decidedly:
"Oh, you can't link yourself with me in any way. I'm a social
outcast--why, now, I haven't even the advantage of being a picturesque
adventurer! You will compromise yourself fearfully--you'll be
ostracized--oh, it's impossible--I can't permit it!"
"You need not fear for yourself--or for me," she said, clasping his
hand. "If I love you, what do I care--what should you care? I have
come to you like Porphyria--but I am no Porphyria--you'll have no need
to strangle me in my hair--my 'darling one wish' will be easier found
than that!"
There was something in the unrestrained fondness of her look, now, that
made him jump to a place beside her. What might have followed was
interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice in the anteroom, demanding
Mr. Granthope. Clytie sprang up, her cheeks burning. Granthope turned
coolly to the door, with his eyebrows lifted. Mr. Payson appeared at
the entrance. He was scowling under his bushy eyebrows, the muscles of
his face were twitching. A cane was firmly clenched in his right hand.
He bent a harsh look at his daughter.
"What does this mean, Clytie?" he demanded.
She had recovered on the instant and faced him splendidly, in neither
defiance nor supplication. "It means," she said in her low, steady
voice, "that as you won't permit me to receive Mr. Granthope in your
house, I must see him in his."
"Leave this room instantly!" he thundered bombastically.
"Please don't make a scene, father. I'm quite old enough to take care
of myself, and to judge for myself. You needn't humiliate me."
"Humiliate you! If you're not humiliated at being found here with a
cheap impostor, I don't think I can shame you! This man is a rank
scoundrel and a cheat--I won't have you compromise yourself with such a
mountebank!"
Granthope stood watching her unruffled, fearless pose, confident in her
power to control the situation.
"Mr. Granthope is my friend, father. Don't say anything that you may
regret. I don't intend to leave you alone with him till you are master
of yourself, and can say what you have come to say without anger. He
has respected your request not to call on me at the house, and I came
here of my own accord, without his invitation. And he has always
treated me as a gentleman should."
"A gentleman!" Mr. Payson sneered. "I know what he is--he's a damned
trickster. I've always suspected it, but since I kicked him out of my
house I've had proof of it. I know his record"--he turned to
Granthope--"from persons who know you well, sir!"
"I suppose you mean Vixley or Madam Spoll."
"You can't deny that they know you pretty well?"
"Your daughter knows more, I think. I have just taken the liberty of
informing her as to just how much of a scoundrel I am."
"And you have the impertinence to consider yourself her social equal!"
"I think Miss Payson's position is sufficiently assured for her to be in
no danger."
"Well, yours certainly is not. I've heard of your lady-killing. I
suppose you want to add my daughter's scalp to your belt. Haven't you
women enough running after you yet? So you wheedled her with a
mock-confession--tried the cry-baby on her. Well, it won't work with
me. I'll tell her all about you, don't be afraid!"
Clytie went to him and laid a hand gently upon his arm. "Father, we'll
go, now, please. I can't bear this. You need only to look about you to
see that, whatever Mr. Granthope has been, he is no longer a palmist.
You see this room is already dismantled--if you'll only listen, I'll
explain everything."
"It does look rather theatrical here." Mr. Payson looked at the piles
of velvet on the floor, then turned again to the young man. "It seems
that you have the audacity to want to marry my daughter. No doubt this
little scene is a part of the game. It's very pretty, very effective.
But let me tell you that this sensational tomfoolery won't be of any
use. You are a charlatan, sir! You've always been one, and you always
will be."
"Mr. Payson," Granthope said, with no trace of anger, "I can't deny that
something of what you say is true, but your daughter knows that much
already, and she has it from a better authority than yours. I can't
blame you for your feeling in this matter; it's quite natural, for you
don't know me. But I hope in time to induce you to believe in me. I
wish you would let me begin by doing what should have done when I first
met your daughter--warn you that you are in the hands of a dangerous set
of swindlers who are deceiving you systematically. I can tell you a
good deal that it will be greatly to your advantage to know about them."
The old man broke into ironic laughter. "That's just what they told me
you'd say," he sneered. "They warned me that you'd try to libel them
and accuse them of all sorts of impossible tricks. Set a thief to catch
a thief, eh? No, that won't work, Mr. Granthope. I happen to know too
much for that!"
"Won't you listen to what he has to say, father? It can do no harm.
What do you know about those persons, after all? They are undoubtedly
trying to deceive you," Clytie said earnestly.