The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

with verve and ardor. He led, however, an intense mental life; there he was a creature of enthusiasms and contempts, capable of no intermediate emotion.

      What else was true of his character it would be necessary to determine from the several ladies of his choice whom he kept carefully apart, recipients of his subdivided confidence. Blanchard Cayley did not introduce female contemporaries.

      He wore a carefully trimmed, reddish, Vandyke beard, with a drooping mustache; his hair curled a bit effeminately. Large blue eyes, the well-developed nose of the hobbyist, hands of a sixteenth-century gentleman, aristocratic, well-kept, soft. To-night he was in half-dress—dinner jacket and gold studs, an inch wide stripe upon his trousers—this under a yellow mackintosh and cricket cap, in strict accordance with his own ideas of form.

      Mr. Payson was in the library still busy with his manuscript when he entered. The two shook hands. Blanchard's manner had in it something of a survival of the old school. He was never awkward, yet never bombastic. Suave, rather, with a semi-humorous touch that relieved his courtesy of anything solemn. He smiled, showing his teeth, saying, with an appearance of great interest,

      "Well, Mr. Payson, I see you're still at it. How's The Open Door in the Orient?"

      "Oh, getting on," said Mr. Payson. "I want to read you my last chapter when I get a chance. I think you'll like it."

      Cayley had been successful in appearing to listen, and at the same time pay his respects to Clytie, whose hand he did not let go without a personal pressure in addition to the visible greeting. He kept it an unpleasant half-second longer than had Granthope. She freed herself with a slight gesture of discomfort. "Perhaps I'd better go up-stairs and leave you men alone to talk it over," she suggested.

      "Certainly not," said her father. "I'll wait until some other time, only I thought Blanchard would be interested."

      "Indeed, I am," Cayley protested. "I'm very anxious to hear your opinion about gold, too. I have something to suggest, myself. Oh!" He delved into his breast pocket. "Here are some notes on the history of the trade dollar, Mr. Payson. You know I was speaking of it. I've been looking up the subject at the mint and at the library for you; I think it might give you some ideas."

      Mr. Payson took the paper eagerly and pushed up his spectacles to examine it. "Thank you; thank you very much. I'll be glad to look it over. It's a pleasure to find any one nowadays who's so interested in what is going to be a very vital question. You'll find my cigars here, somewhere. Cly, you go and find the box, won't you?"

      As Clytie disappeared in the direction of the dining-room, he added, "You must humor her, Blanchard, she's a bit skittish. Don't force her hand and I think you'll bring her around."

      "Thanks for the tip, but I have my idea," was the reply. "It's only a question of time when I shall be able to produce the psychological condition I want."

      Mr. Payson shook his head dubiously. "I don't know. That isn't the way we went about it when I was young. We didn't bother much with psychology then. We had emotions to attend to."

      "Oh, love-making is just as much a science as anything else, and there is no reason why it shouldn't progress. There are modern methods, you know; it's only a form of hypnotism." He smiled blandly.

      When he and Clytie were alone—a situation she seemed to delay as much as possible—Cayley sat down opposite her with an ingratiating, disarming smile. He was neither eager nor impressive. He was sure of himself. It did not, as he had said, seem to matter a great deal about her emotions; he scarcely considered her otherwise than as a mind whose defenses he was to overthrow in an intellectual contest. He began with elaborate circumlocution.

      "Well, I've discovered something."

      Her delicate eyebrows rose.

      "It is a curious botanical fact that there are four thousand lamp-posts in the city of San Francisco."

      "Why botanical?"

      "That is just what I expected you to ask."

      "Then I'll not ask it." She was already on the defense.

      "But you did!"

      "Well?" She appeared to resent his tone.

      "Now, see here!" He laid his right forefinger to his left palm. "Suppose a Martian were visiting the earth. He wouldn't at first be able to distinguish the properties of things. So, seeing these four thousand lamp-posts, he might consider them as a part of the Terrene flora—queer trees."

      It was like a game of chess, and it was evident that she could not foresee his next move. The detour was too complicated. She seemed, by her attitude, to be on her guard, but allowed him, with a nod of assent, to proceed.

      "Now, suppose you have the Martian, or let us call it the uncorrelative point of view. Suppose you use brain-cells that have hitherto been quiescent or undeveloped."

      "I don't exactly follow." Her attention wandered.

      He probed it. "Suppose I should get up and kiss you."

      She awoke suddenly.

      "You see what I mean now?" he continued. "You exploded a new cell then. You gained a new point of view with regard to me. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you."

      "Indeed, you're not!" Her alarm subsided; her resentment, rising to an equal level, was drawn off in a smile at the absurdity of the discussion.

      He went on: "But you must acknowledge that I have, at least, produced a psychological condition. I'm going to use that new cell again." He waited for her answer.

      "Dear me!" she exclaimed at last. "We're getting very far away from the lamp-posts. I'm quite in the dark."

      He proceeded: "My character is lighted by four thousand lamp-posts also."

      "Ah, I see! You want me to regard them as botanical facts. I, as a supposititious Martian, with this wonderful new cell, am to perceive in you something that is not true?"

      "No, for in Mars, the lamp-posts, we will suppose, are vegetables—not mechanical objects."

      "A little more light from the lamp-posts, please."

      "They are emotions, alive and growing. They have heat as well as light, in spite of their subtleties. I want you to perceive the fact that my methodical nature shows that I have a determined, potent stimulus—that I have energy—that I am in earnest."

      She seemed to sniff the danger now and stood at gaze. He went on:

      "I shall keep at the attempt until you do look at me in this way—till I've educated these dormant cells."

      "If you are leading up to another proposal," Clytie said, "I must say I admire your devotion to method, but it is time thrown away."

      He took this calmly enough. He took everything calmly; but he did not abate his persistence. "I'm not leading up to a proposal so much as I am to an acceptance."

      Clytie shrugged her shoulders. "You'll be telling me you're in love with me next."

      "Do you doubt it?"

      "A half-dozen proposals have not convinced me."

      "Seven," he corrected. "This is the eighth."

      "How long do you intend to keep it up?"

      "Until I produce in your mind a psychological condition which will convince you that I'm in earnest, that I am sincere, that I am the man for you. Then I shall produce an emotional reflex—it's sure to follow. It may come to-night and it may come next year. Sooner or later circumstances will bring about this crystallization. Some shock may help; it may be a simple growth. I am sure to win you in the long run. I'm bound to have you, and I will, if I have to make a hundred attempts. You can't dismiss me, for I'm an old friend and you need me. I have educated you, I have broadened your horizon. You see, I am playing with my cards on the table."

      "But without trumps." Clytie stifled a yawn.

      "Meaning,