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. "I think it’s a rather extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maxwell’s asking him, though, don’t you?" one of the ladies said. The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic voice: "Oh, she wanted an attraction, I suppose, and he’s really very good-looking, you know." "He’s handsome enough, but he’s too much like a matinee hero for me; my dear, he’s absolutely impossible, really! He’s not the sort of person one cares to meet more than once. He’s beyond the pale. "It’s rather cruel to invite him just to show him off, I think. In a way, he had to accept." "Oh, I expect he’s only too glad to come." "I wonder how he feels! Do you suppose he has any idea that he’s out of his element? It must be strange to be willing to accept an invitation when you know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."