"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.