"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence was so valuable in accustoming spirits to earth-conditions, that they were going to reveal a new bible to him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and he would go down to posterity as its author. In return, he was to help civilize the planet Jupiter. You see, Jupiter being an exterior planet was behind the earth in culture. Bennett contributed all sorts of agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized and sent to Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used as patterns. Wing even got him to contribute a five hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose. It was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even when it was shown to Bennett by his friends, who were trying to save him, he wouldn't believe it was the same one. They milked him out of every cent at last, and he died bankrupt."
Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the drawing-room doors were half opened and Mrs. Page appeared on the threshold pouting.
"Aren't you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed petulantly. "You might let us have Mr. Granthope, at least."
The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.
Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect upon what he had done, but in that moment he regretted his indiscretion in telling the Bennett story. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to make himself interesting and agreeable; now he wondered what price he would have to pay for it. The next moment his speculations vanished at the sight of Clytie.
He went directly to her and sat down. Although the party was dispersed in little groups, the conversation had become more or less general, and he had no chance to talk to her alone. He received her smile, however, and she favored him with as much of her talk as was possible.
As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost languor, she made the other women in the room look either negligently lolling or awkwardly conscious. He noticed how some of them showed the fabled western influence of environment by the frank abandon of their pose, how others held themselves rigidly, as if aware of their own lack, and sought, by stern attention, to conceal it. Clytie's head was poised proudly, her hands fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers. Her whole body was faultlessly composed, unified with harmonious lines, as if a masterly portrait were gently roused into life.
Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese parody, accompanied by absurd pantomime. Granthope could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still busy with her admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the library.
Mr. Maxwell's books were rare and carefully selected, a treat for such an amateur as Granthope. He went from case to case fingering the volumes, opening and glancing through one after another. The pursuit kept him longer than he had intended.
There was a smaller room off the library, used as a study and shut off by a portière. Granthope, standing near the entrance, suddenly heard the sound of swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued, modulated voices of two women. With no intention at first of eavesdropping, he kept on with his perusal of the book in his hand. The first part of the conversation he remembered rather than listened to, but it soon attracted his alert attention.