Or perhaps some social offense would absorb everybody's attention for the better part of half-an-hour.

"Look, Emily," their hostess would say, during a call, "isn't this rich! The Bridges have had their crest put on their mourning-stationery! Don't you LOVE it! Mamma says that the girls must have done it; the old lady MUST know better! Execrable bad taste, I call it."

"Oh, ISN'T that awful!" Emily would inspect the submitted letter with deep amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Oh, Mary, let's see it--I don't believe it!" somebody else would exclaim.

"Poor things, and they try so hard to do everything right!" Kindly pity would soften the tones of a fourth speaker.

"But you know Mary, they DO do that in England," somebody might protest.

"Oh, Peggy, rot! Of course they don't!"

"Why, certainly they do!" A little feeling would be rising. "When Helen and I were in London we had some friends--"

"Nonsense, Peggy, it's terribly vulgar! I know because Mamma's cousin--"

"Oh honestly, Peggy, it's never done!"

"I never heard of such a thing!"

"You might use your crest in black, Peg, but in color--!"

"Just ask any engraver, Peg. I know when Frances was sending to England for our correct quarterings,--they'd been changed--"

"But I tell you I KNOW," Miss Peggy would say angrily. "Do you mean to tell me that you'd take the word of a stationer--"

"A herald. You can't call that a stationer--"

"Well, then a herald! What do they know?"

"Why, of course they know!" shocked voices would protest. "It's their business!"

"Well," the defender of the Bridges would continue loftily, "all I can say is that Alice and I SAW it--"

"I know that when WE were in London," some pleasant, interested voice would interpose, modestly, "our friends--Lord and Lady Merridew, they were, you know, and Sir Henry Phillpots--they were in mourning, and THEY didn't. But of course I don't know what other people, not n.o.bility, that is, might do!"

And of course this crushing conclusion admitted of no answer. But Miss Peggy might say to Susan later, with a bright, pitying smile:

"Alice will ROAR when I tell her about this! Lord and Lady Merridew,--that's simply delicious! I love it!"

"Bandar-log," Bocqueraz called them, and Susan often thought of the term in these days. From complete disenchantment she was saved, however, by her deepening affection for Isabel Wallace, and, whenever they were together, Susan had to admit that a more lovely personality had never been developed by any environment or in any cla.s.s. Isabel, fresh, unspoiled, eager to have everyone with whom she came in contact as enchanted with life as she was herself, developed a real devotion for Susan, and showed it in a hundred ways. If Emily was away for a night, Isabel was sure to come and carry Susan off for as many hours as possible to the lovely Wallace home. They had long, serious talks together; Susan did not know whether to admire or envy most Isabel's serene happiness in her engagement, the most brilliant engagement of the winter, and Isabel's deeper interest in her charities, her tender consideration of her invalid mother, her flowers, her plan for the small brothers.

"John is wonderful, of course," Isabel would agree in a smiling aside to Susan when, furred and glowing, she had brought her handsome big lover into the Saunders' drawing-room for a cup of tea, "but I've been spoiled all my life, Susan, and I'm afraid he's going right on with it!

And--" Isabel's lovely eyes would be lighted with an ardent glow, "and I want to do something with my life, Sue, something BIG, in return for it all!"

Again, Susan found herself watching with curious wistfulness the girl who had really had an offer of marriage, who was engaged, openly adored and desired. What had he said to her--and she to him--what emotions crossed their hearts when they went to watch the building of the beautiful home that was to be theirs?

A man and a woman--a man and a woman--loving and marrying--what a miracle the familiar aspects of approaching marriage began to seem! In these days Susan read old poems with a thrill, read "Trilby" again, and found herself trembling, read "Adam Bede," and shut the book with a thundering heart. She went, with the others, to "Faust," and turned to Stephen Bocqueraz a pale, tense face, and eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

The writer's study, beyond the big library, had a fascination for her.

At least once a day she looked in upon him there, sometimes with Emily, sometimes with Ella, never, after that first day, alone.

"You can see that he's perfectly devoted to that dolly-faced wife of his!" Ella said, half-contemptuously. "I think we all bore him," Emily said. "Stephen is a good and n.o.ble man," said his wife's old cousin.

Susan never permitted herself to speak of him. "Don't you like him?"

asked Isabel. "He seems crazy about you! I think you're terribly fine to be so indifferent about it, Susan!"

On a certain December evening Emily decided that she was very unwell, and must have a trained nurse. Susan, who had stopped, without Emily, at the Wallaces' for tea, understood perfectly that the youngest Miss Saunders was delicately intimating that she expected a little more attention from her companion. A few months ago she would have risen to the occasion with the sort of cheerful flattery that never failed in its effect on Emily, but to-night a sort of stubborn irritation kept her lips sealed, and in the end she telephoned for the nurse Emily fancied, a Miss Watts, who had been taking care of one of Emily's friends.

Miss Watts, effusive and solicitous, arrived, and Susan could see that Emily was repenting of her bargain long before she, Susan, had dressed for dinner. But she ran downstairs with a singing heart, nevertheless.

Ella was to bring two friends in for cards, immediately after dinner; Kenneth had not been home for three days; Miss Baker was in close attendance upon Mrs. Saunders, who had retired to her room before dinner; so Susan and Stephen were free to dine alone. Susan had hesitated, in the midst of her dressing, over the consideration of a gown, and had finally compromised with her conscience by deciding upon quite the oldest, plainest, shabbiest black silk in the little collection.

"Most becoming thing you ever put on!" said Emily, trying to reestablish quite cordial relations.

"I know," Susan agreed guiltily.

When she and Stephen Bocqueraz came back into one of the smaller drawing-rooms after dinner Susan walked to the fire and stood, for a few moments, staring down at the coals. The conversation during the softly lighted, intimate little dinner had brought them both to a dangerous mood. Susan was excited beyond the power of reasonable thought. It was all nonsense, they were simply playing; he was a married man, and she a woman who never could by any possibility be anything but "good," she would have agreed impatiently and gaily with her own conscience if she had heard it at all--but just now she felt like enjoying this particular bit of foolery to the utmost, and, since there was really no harm in it, she was going to enjoy it! She had not touched wine at dinner, but some subtler intoxication had seized her, she felt conscious of her own beauty, her white throat, her shining hair, her slender figure in its clinging black, she felt conscious of Stephen's eyes, conscious of the effective background for them both that the room afforded; the dull hangings, subdued lights and softly shining surfaces.

Her companion stood near her, watching her. Susan, still excitedly confident that she controlled the situation, began to feel her breath come deep and swift, began to wish that she could think of just the right thing to say, to relieve the tension a little-began to wish that Ella would come in--

She raised her eyes, a little frightened, a little embarra.s.sed, to his, and in the next second he had put his arms about her and crushed her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

"Susan," he said, very quietly, "you are my girl--you are MY girl, will you let me take care of you? I can't help it--I love you."

This was not play-acting, at last. A grim, an almost terrible earnestness was in his voice; his face was very pale; his eyes dark with pa.s.sion. Susan, almost faint with the shock, pushed away his arms, walked a few staggering steps and stood, her back turned to him, one hand over her heart, the other clinging to the back of a chair, her breath coming so violently that her whole body shook.

"Oh, don't--don't--don't!" she said, in a horrified and frightened whisper.

"Susan"--he began eagerly, coming toward her. She turned to face him, and breathing as if she had been running, and in simple entreaty, she said:

"Please--please--if you touch me again--if you touch me again--I cannot--the maids will hear--Bostwick will hear--"

"No, no, no! Don't be frightened, dear," he said quickly and soothingly. "I won't. I won't do anything you don't want me to!"

Susan pressed her hand over her eyes; her knees felt so weak that she was afraid to move. Her breathing slowly grew more even.

"My dear--if you'll forgive me!" the man said repentantly. She gave him a weary smile, as she went to drop into her low chair before the fire.

"No, no, Mr. Bocqueraz, I'm to blame," she said quietly. And suddenly she put her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands.

"Listen, Susan--" he began again. But again she silenced him.

"Just--one--moment--" she said pleadingly. For two or three moments there was silence.

"No, it's my fault," Susan said then, more composedly, pushing her hair back from her forehead with both hands, and raising her wretched eyes.

"Oh, how could I--how could I!" And again she hid her face.

Stephen Bocqueraz did not speak, and presently Susan added, with a sort of pa.s.sion: