"Oh, it's only a feeling I have. You know I have my intuitions—but what friendship there is has been of his seeking."
"He's all right, Cly," her father said dictatorially. "I haven't lived in the West for fifty years without knowing something of men. I do want you to learn to appreciate him. He's got a future before him and he is certainly fond of you. You know, if anything did come of it, I would—"
Clytie arose abruptly. "I think dinner's almost ready, father, and I'm hungry. Are you ready?"
She was imperious, holding her tawny head erect, her chin high, her hands clasped behind her back, the willowy suppleness of her body now grown rigid. Mr. Payson sighed resignedly, and allowed a moment's silence to speak for him; then, finding that his daughter's attitude continued to dominate the situation, he, too, arose, patted her cheek and shook his head. This pantomime coaxed forth a gracious smile from her. He took his manuscripts and left to go up to his room. Clytie remained at the window till he returned.
They had nearly finished their dinner, when, after a casual dialogue, she remarked, without looking at him:
"Father, do you remember anything about an old crazy woman who lived down south of Market Street somewhere, years ago—in a cheap hotel, I think it was?"
He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily so calm and so mellow, quavered slightly.
"What do you mean? Who was she?" he asked earnestly.
"That's what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring her coffee.
"What do you know about her?"