The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

even if—"

      She could not help breaking into smiles again, as she interrupted him.

      "Oh, but I haven't told you yet."

      "Please do, then!"

      "It sounds so foolish when I say it—so priggish! But it's this: I don't at all approve of you. Why in the world should I care? I don't know. It isn't my business to reform you, if you need it." Now she had brought it out, she could not look at him.

      Curiously enough, though he had been amused at her assumption of a circumstantial knowledge of him, this hinted comprehension of his character, of the duplicity of his life, if it were that, impressed him with the existence in her mind of some quality as rare and mysterious as electricity, a real psychic gift, perhaps. It gave him an instant's pause. Instinctively he feared a more definite arraignment. He began a little more seriously, now, to match his cleverness against her intuition; and, for the first defense, he employed a move of masculine coquetry.

      "You have been thinking of me, then?"

      "Yes," she replied simply, "I have thought about you a good deal since I was in your studio. But I suppose you're used to hearing things like that from women." She was apologetic, rather than sarcastic.

      He shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to be able to make no way against her directness. "I've thought not a little of you, too, Miss Payson. You are wonderfully psychic and sensitive. I think you should develop your power—you might be able to do extraordinary things with it. I wish you'd let me help you. That is," he added humorously, "if I'm not too far gone in your disapproval."

      "Oh, the disapproval—I call it that for want of a better word—isn't so important as the fact that I should feel it at all, don't you see? You remember that you told me I was the kind of a woman who, if she liked a man, would tell him so, freely. That is true. I would scorn to stoop to the immemorial feminine tricks. I do like you, and in spite of what I can't quite explain, too. I don't know why, either. It seems as if it's a part of that other feeling I've mentioned—that I've been with you, or near you, before."

      He leaned forward to extort more of this delicious confession from her. "Do you mean spiritually, or merely physically near?"

      "Oh, I don't mean an 'elective affinity' or anything so occult as that," she laughed. "Indeed, I don't quite know what I do mean—it's all so vague. I can't formulate it. It escapes me when I try. But I did know, for instance, quite definitely, that I'd see you again. I tell you about it only because I think that you, with your power in that way, may be able to understand it and explain it to me."

      He thought he saw his chance, now, and instinctively he began to pose, letting his eyes deepen and burn on her. He nodded his head and said impressively:

      "Yes. I have felt it, too, Miss Payson. It's wonderful to think that you should have recognized me and understood me so well. No one ever has before. We are related by some tie—I'm sure we've met before, somewhere, somehow—"

      She jumped up and stood before him, her hands tightly held, her lips pressed together. For a moment, so, she looked hard at him; then what there had been of anger in her gaze softened to something like sadness or pity.

      "That's what I meant!"

      He misunderstood her remark and her attitude and went still farther astray from her meaning.

      "You are not like any other woman I have ever known," he said, in the same soulful way.

      "Why can't you be honest with me!" she broke out. She was astonishingly alive now; there was no trace of her former languor. He winced at realizing, suddenly, and too late, that he had made a false step.

      "Why do you make me regret having been frank?" she went on, with a despairing throb in her voice. "You have almost succeeded in making me ashamed of myself, already. That is just what I disapprove of in you. Don't imagine that you can ever deceive me with such sentimentality. I shall always know when you're straightforward and simple. That's what I've been trying to make you understand—that I do know!"

      She turned slowly away from him, almost hopelessly. For a moment she remained immobile, then before he had recovered his wits, she had modified the situation for him. Her eyes drifted back to his as she remarked thoughtfully:

      "I am sure, too, that you could help me, if you would."

      "How?" He tried to pull himself together.

      "Merely by being honest with me."

      He raised his eyebrows.

      "Oh, I know that's a good deal to ask," she laughed.

      "Of me?"

      "Of any one."

      "I'll try, Miss Payson," he said, not too seriously. "But you've frightened me. I don't dare think too hard about anything, you're such a witch."

      She released him graciously and keyed down to an easier tone.

      "You must forgive me if I've been too frank, Mr. Granthope, but this interview is almost like a first meeting, and you know how much one is apt to say in such a situation. Let's not continue the discussion—I'm embarrassed enough already. I know I shall regret what I've said. We'll talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that pretty girl in your office."

      "Oh!" he exclaimed, and his tone was as if he had said, "Aha!" He wondered if it were possible that, after all, it was only this which had moved her to speak.

      Clytie frowned, but if she read his thought, she let it go unchallenged.

      "She's an original little thing; I like her," she added.

      "You do?" he said mischievously exaggerating his surprise.

      "Yes, I do. Don't think I'm trying to patronize her, but she's a dear—and she's very pretty."

      "Do you think so? I shall have to tell her that. She's pretty enough, at least, to have been on the stage. She was in vaudeville for a couple of years. I first got acquainted with her at the Orpheum. I've known her a long time. She's a great help and a great comfort to me, and a very clever girl."

      "How long has she been your assistant?"

      "Two years."

      "And you haven't fallen in love with her yet?"

      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—?"