"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."