"By marrying you."
She winced. "Blanchard," she said, "if you weren't an old friend, I couldn't forgive you that. But because you are, I can't permit you to think it."
"It was because we are old friends that I permitted myself to speak so plainly. You'll count it, I suppose, merely as jealousy. But I hate to see you taken in so easily."
Clytie looked up at him calmly, folding her hands in her lap. "Now, Blanchard, please tell me exactly what you mean, without any more insinuations."
"Why, Granthope has been for two months trying to marry you. He's after your money."
"Thank you for the implied compliment," she retorted dryly.
"Oh, well, you know perfectly well what I think of you, Cly. I was thinking of what I know of him, not what I know of you. He's made a deliberate attempt to get you, and this reform business is only a part of the game."
She smiled and turned away, as if she were so sure of Granthope that it was hardly worth her while even to defend him.
"It's not pleasant to say it," he went on; "but you spoke of being distrustful of these mediums your father knows, and my point is that Granthope's tarred with the same brush. He has worked with them and plotted with them."
She was as yet unruffled; the spell of her happiness was still upon her, and she answered mildly. "I can hardly blame you for thinking that, perhaps. I suppose I might myself, if I didn't know him so well. But I do happen to know something about his life, and I'm sure you're mistaken. He's told me a good deal, and I have my own intuitions besides."