Granthope was relieved. He was sure now that she was, if not jealous, suspicious of his relations with Fancy. It was not the first time he had encountered such insinuations. "Oh, not in the least," he said. "I can give you my word as to that. I don’t think it ever occurred to me—though I’d do anything in the world for her." "And I suppose you’re as sure of her immunity?" "Why, of course," said Granthope, and in his tone there was the ring of masculine assurance. Clytie smiled and shook her head. "There are some things men never can know, no matter how clairvoyant they are," she said, looking away. He did not follow this up, but arose to leave. "I’m afraid you have a very poor opinion of me, Miss Payson," he said, "but I do feel complimented by your frankness. Perhaps I shall merit it—who knows?" It was his turn to address the distance, and, in spite of his consciousness of an histrionic effect, his own words sounded curiously in his ears; they seemed premonitory. He shook himself free from her influence again. She had controlled the situation from the first word; he had only made a series of mistakes. It all confirmed his first estimate of her: that she was very well worth his while, but that her capture would be difficult. Clytie, too, had arisen. Her mood had lightened, and her sense of humor had returned. "I hope I haven’t been either tragic or absurd," she said, smiling. "I’m not always so serious, Mr. Granthope. The next time I meet you I’ll probably be more conventional." "Then I may see you again?" "I doubt if you can help it." "I shall certainly not try to!" Then he paused. "You mean—?" "Yes!" There was something delightful to him in this rapid transfer of wordless thought. It again established an intimacy between them. That she acknowledged such a relation by anticipating another meeting, an inevitable one, charmed him the more. He might win, after all, with such assistance from her. Her power of intuition aroused his curiosity—he longed to experiment with it. She was a new plaything which he had yet to learn to handle. Before, he had dominated her easily enough; he might do so again. "Miss Payson," he said, "won’t you come down to my studio again sometime? I’d like to make a more careful examination of your hand, and perhaps I can help you in developing your psychic sense." "Oh, no, thank you. Really, I can’t come again—I shall be pretty busy for a while—I have to go to the Mercantile Library every afternoon, looking up material for my father’s book—and, after all, I got what I wanted." "What did you want?" "Partly to see you." He bowed. "Curiosity?" "Let’s call it interest." "You had no faith, then, in my palmistry?" "Very little." "Yet you acknowledge that I told you some things that were true?" "Haven’t I told you several things about yourself, too?" "I’d like to hear more." "Oh, I’ve said too much, already." "Let’s see. That I am more or less of a villain—"