Part 13

"Oh, you've forgotten how hard it is to deceive me. I should never try it, if I were you. Of course I knew you! I should know you if you had covered your head in a sack."

He stammered, and he was not often confused enough to stammer. "I don't know how to tell you how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."

She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection, "Oh, I'm so sorry." Then she added, "I scarcely dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."

"I would need to be, to be worthy of sitting beside you," he replied, his wits floating, unmanageable.

"Did you get my note?"

"Yes, I want to thank you for it."

"I hope you've forgiven me."

"Of course, I was only flattered by your frankness."

"It's so easy to be frank with you," she said. "You see, I'm perfectly myself with you, even _en masque_. I doubt if any of my friends would know me as I am with you."

"But I've seen a new 'you' that I haven't known before."

"Then she owes her existence to your presence. But how am I different? Tell me."

"You take my breath away. You say such charming things to me that it deprives me of the power of answering you--anything I could say seems ineffective and cheap. You get ahead of me so. Really, you'll have to be positively rude to me before I can summon presence of mind enough to say anything gallant."

Again her lips curved daintily. Her voice was dulcet:

"Then I am afraid I shall never hear any nice things from you."

He was reduced; baffled by her suavity. He sought in vain for a fitting return. He had the impulse to take advantage of her courtesy, however, and gratify some portion of his desire to be nearer her. She wore, suspended from the gold top-button of her "qua," a red silk tassel with a filigree network of silver threads, containing a gold heart-shaped scent bottle. He reached to it and tried to remove it from its place, covering this slight advance jocosely, with the remark:

"Is that your heart you have there? It seems to be pure gold."

She did not resent what might possibly have been considered a familiarity, but smiled when she saw that he could not remove the bottle from the meshes.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to get at it, that way." There was a touch of playful emphasis in her voice.

Their hands met as she assisted him, showing him how to pull up the sliding ring and open the net. At that contact he became a little giddy. The blood surged to her cheeks. She took out the bottle and handed it to him. That moment was tense with feeling. Then she said, as he tried in vain to unstopper the little jar:

"Can you open it, do you think?"

He attempted futilely to open the little heart. "I'm afraid I can't," he said disconsolately. "Won't you help me?"

"No, you must do it yourself. There is a way--see!"

She took it from him and, concealing it in her hand, opened the top and reached it out for him to smell. He whiffed a penetrating perfume, disturbingly pungent, then she withdrew it from him and closed the heart.

"May I take it?" he asked.

She returned it now, saying, and her smile was more serious than before, "Learn to open it. There is a way."

Granthope took the heart and tried to master its secret. The room had by this time filled up so that a further tete-a-tete was impossible. Miss Payson was now besieged by maskers and held court where she sat. Fernigan, the stout young man with the powdered face, dressed as a woman, was particularly offensive to Granthope, and especially so because it could not be denied that his antics and sallies were witty.

Granthope arose therefore, and walked about the room looking for some one whom he might recognize. There was little likelihood of his succeeding had not his professional capacity given him a clue to follow. He passed from one group to another, bowing, gesticulating and joking, as all had now begun to do, keeping his eyes alertly on the hands of different members of the assembly. It was not long before he suspected Mrs. Page, and, after reassuring himself by closer inspection, he went up to her.

She was as expensively dressed as Clytie, but without Clytie's taste. Mrs. Page's magnificence was barbaric, untamed to any harmony of color, though effective in its very violence. She had not left her diamonds at home. She blazed in them. Tall, dark, well-formed and deep-breasted, not even the loosely hanging folds of a Chinese costume could hide the luxuriance with which Nature had endowed her figure. She was laughing with abandon, reveling in the freedom of the moment, when Granthope touched her on the shoulder and whispered:

"Violet!"

She turned to him and stared, puzzled by his well-disguised face.

"Who are you?"

"I know more about you than any one here!"

"Good heavens!" she laughed, "what do you know about me?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"Not here, for mercy's sake! Don't give me away in respectable society, please. Come out in the hall where we won't be eavesdropped."

She took his arm energetically and romped him out to the staircase. The masks and costumes had let loose all her folly. She effervesced in giggles.

"Let's go up-stairs in the library," she proposed. "We have the run of the house to-night, and nobody'll be there. I want to see if I can't guess who you are. I haven't the least idea who you are, but I believe you're going to be nice."

She tapped him on the cheek playfully with her fan, then picked up her skirts and ran up-stairs, giving him a glance of red silk hose, as she went. He was still quivering with the excitement of Clytie's smile, still warm from her nearness, still full of her, though he would not share her wholesale glances to her throng of admirers. He was still rapt with the exhilaration her smile had kindled, he still held her little perfumed heart. As he followed Mrs. Page up-stairs he smelt again of the gold bottle. The fragrant odor fired him anew. He grew perfervid.

Mrs. Page, unmasked, was awaiting him in the library.

When they came down ten minutes later, he made way to where Clytie sat, talking to the gentleman with the reddish pointed beard and plum-colored garments. Seeing Granthope approach, she turned to her companion, saying:

"Would you mind getting me a glass of water, Blanchard? This mask is fearfully warm. I hope we won't have to keep them on much longer."

Cayley left to obey her and Granthope took his place by her chair. She looked up at him quickly, and said, in a low voice:

"I think you had better give me back my scent-bottle, please."

A pang smote him. He felt the shock of reproach in her voice, knowing what she meant immediately, though he rallied to say, faint-heartedly:

"Why, I haven't learned how to open it yet."

"I'm afraid you'll never learn." She did not look at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, summoning all his courage. "I thought you had given it to me."

She kept her eyes away from him. "If I did, I must ask it back, now."

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.

Granthope exclaimed, "You knew that?"

"Ah, it is only with you that I can do it." She seemed to be more confused at the incident than he. "I know so much more than I ever dare speak of," she added.

This did not weaken her spell.

She continued: "Do you remember what you said, when you read my palm, about my being willing to make an exaggerated confession of motives, rather than seem to be hypocritical, or unable to see my own faults?"

He did not remember, but he dared not say so. He waited a fraction of a second too long before he said:

"Certainly I remember."

She looked hard at him and mentally he cowered under her clear gaze. Then her brows drew slightly together with a puzzled expression, as if she wondered why he should take the trouble to lie about so small a matter. But this passed, and she did not arraign his sincerity.

"Well, what I want you to know now is that I don't consider myself any better--than she is. Do you know what I mean? I don't condemn her. Oh, dear, I'm so inarticulate! I hope you understand!"

"I think I do," he answered, but he could not help speculating as to the definiteness of her perception. She answered his question unasked.

"I get things only vaguely--that's one reason why I could not judge a person upon the evidence of my intuition--I couldn't tell you, for instance, exactly what happened between you two just now. I know only that I was disturbed, and that you, somehow, reassured me."

"But you were more precise about what happened up-stairs." He was still at a loss to fix her limitations.

"Oh, there I pieced it out a little. Shall I confess? I knew you well enough to fill in the picture. I know something of her, too."

"Witch!"

"You're a wizard to make me confess!" she replied, brightly shining on him. "I don't often speak. It's usually very disagreeable to know so much of people--indeed, I often combat it and refuse to see. But with you it's different."

"It's not disagreeable?"

"No, it is disagreeable usually. It makes me feel priggish to mention it, too, but, with you, the impulse to speak is as strong as the revelation itself; that's the strangest part of it."

This confession gave him a new sense of power, for he saw that, sensitive as was her intuition, he controlled and appropriated it. It had already occurred to him what splendid use he might make of her, compelling such assistance as she could render. Vistas of ambition had opened to his fancy. For him, as a mere adventurer, her clairvoyance might reinforce his scheming most successfully. With her he could play his game as with a new queen on the chess-board. But he saw now how absurd was the possibility of harnessing her to such projects. He was, in fact, a little dazzled by the prospect she suggested. As he corrected that mistake with a blush for his worldly innocence, he saw what the game with her alone could be--his game transferred from the plane of chicanery to the level of an intimate friendship--or even love. He saw how she would play it, how she would hold his interest, keeping him intellectually alive with the subtlety of her character.

So far he had not taken her seriously; he had reveled in the possibility of a love affair, but he had not even contemplated the possibility of a permanent alliance. As Madam Spoll had said, he had had his pick of women--and each had ended by boring him. Granthope, besides, with all his delight in strategy, was modest, and desire for social establishment had not entered into his plans. He had accepted Clytie as one of a different world, desirable and even tempting, but not at all as one who would change either his theory or his mode of life. But now, with a sudden turn, his thoughts turned to marriage with her. Madam Spoll's words leaped to his memory--she had said that it was possible. This idea came as the final explosion of a long, tumescent agitation. He looked at Clytie with new eyes. His ambition soared.

The meal went on in a succession of bizarre courses--seaweed soup, shark's fins, duck's eggs, fried goose and roasted sucking pig, boiled bamboo sprouts to bird's nests and mysterious dishes--with rice gin and citron wine. The company was rollicking now; even the gentleman in black evening dress was laughing, and, goaded on by the irrepressible Mrs. Page, had taken a large crown of gold paper, cut into rich patterns and decorated with colored trimmings, from its place in the center of the table and had set it upon his bald head. The walls of the dining-room were covered with a row of paper costumes, elaborate robes used by the Chinese tongs in their triennial festival of the dead. They were of all colors, decorated with cut paper or painted in dragon designs with rainbow borders and gold mons. Mrs. Page tore one from the wainscot and wrapped it about her partner's shoulders. Fernigan gibbered a fantastic allegiance before him; Keith, he of the white nose, called for a speech. Over all this mirth the clashing cymbals, the rattling tom-toms and squeaking two-stringed fiddles kept up an uncouth accompaniment. Granthope, so far, had been a quiet observer, but when at Clytie's request he removed his wig and false mustache, he was recognized by Frankie Dean, who sat further up the table.

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she cried out. "Won't you please read my hand?"

Every one turned to him. Clytie watched him to see what he would do. Mrs. Maxwell, at the head of the table, obviously annoyed at this indelicacy, sought to rescue him.

"I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn't be asked," she interposed, smiling with difficulty.

"Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan announced. The guests tittered.

Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young lady's side, taking her hand. Then he turned to his sarcastic tormentor.

"This is one of the rewards of my profession," he said, smiling graciously. "I assure you I don't often get a chance to hold such a beautiful hand as this."

Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read her approval. He bent to the girl's palm gravely:

"I see by your clothes-line," he said, "that you have much taste and dress well. Your fish-line shows that you have extraordinary luck in catching anything you want. There are many victories along your line of march. There is a pronounced line of beauty here; in fact, all your lines are cast in pleasant places. You will have a very good hand at whatever game you play, and whoever is fortunate enough to marry you will surely take the palm."

He retired gracefully, followed by laughter and applause, and was not troubled by more requests. Clytie whispered to him:

"I think you saved yourself with honor. It was a test, but I was sure of you!"

Mrs. Maxwell, immensely relieved, almost immediately gave the signal for the ladies to leave. After the men had reseated themselves, heavy Chinese pipes with small bowls were passed about. Most of the guests tried a few puffs of the mild tobacco, and then reached for cigarettes or cigars. As the doors to the drawing-room were shut they drew closer together and began to talk more freely.

Blanchard Cayley came over and sat down beside Granthope in Clytie's empty chair. He, too, had taken off his wig. His smile was ingratiating, his voice was suave, as he said:

"I don't want to make you talk shop if you don't care to, Granthope, but I'd like to know if you ever heard of reading the character by thumb-prints. I don't know exactly what you'd call it--papilamancy, perhaps."

"I don't think it has ever been done, but I don't see why it shouldn't be," said Granthope, amused.

"What is necessary to make it a science?"

Granthope, quicker with women than with men, was at a loss to see what Cayley was driving at, but he suspected a trap, and foresaw that his science was to be impugned. He countermined:

"Oh, first of all, a classification and a terminology," he suggested. Cayley was caught neatly. He was more ignorant than he knew.

"Why don't you classify the markings then? I should think it might be considered a logical development of chiromancy."

"One reason is, because they have already been classified by Galton. I've forgotten most of it, but I remember some of the primary divisions. Have you a pencil?"

Cayley unbuttoned and threw open his plum-colored, long-sleeved 'dun,' disclosing evening dress underneath, and produced a pencil which he gave to the palmist. Granthope smoothed out his paper napkin, and, as he talked, drew illustrative diagrams upon it.