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. "I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn’t be asked," she interposed, smiling with difficulty. "Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan announced. The guests tittered. Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young lady’s side, taking her hand. Then he turned to his sarcastic tormentor. "This is one of the rewards of my profession," he said, smiling graciously. "I assure you I don’t often get a chance to hold such a beautiful hand as this." Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read her approval. He bent to the girl’s palm gravely: