And now he had sent Susan a late card, and Susan knew why.  She had met the great man at the Hotel Rafael a few days before, at tea-time, and he had asked Susan most affectionately of her aunt, Mrs. Lancaster, and recalled, with a little emotion, the dances of two generations before, when he was a small boy, and the lovely Georgianna Ralston was a beauty and a belle.  Susan could have kissed the magic bit of pasteboard!

But she knew too well just what Emily wanted to think of Browning’s courtesy, to mention his old admiration for her aunt.  And Emily immediately justified her diplomatic silence by saying: 

“Isn’t that awfully decent of Brownie!  He did that just for Ella and me—­that’s like him!  He’ll do anything for some people!”

“Well, of course I can’t go,” Susan said briskly.  “But I do call it awfully decent!  And no little remarks about sending a check, either, and no chaperone’s card!  The old duck!  However, I haven’t a gown, and I haven’t a beau, and you don’t go, and so I’ll write a tearful regret.  I hope it won’t be the cause of his giving the whole thing up.  I hate to discourage the dear boy!”

Emily laughed approvingly.

“No, but honestly, Sue,” she said, in eager assent, “don’t you know how people would misunderstand—­you know how people are!  You and I know that you don’t care a whoop about society, and that you’d be the last person in the world to use your position here—­but you know what other people might say!  And Brownie hates talk—­”

Susan had to swallow hard, and remain smiling.  It was part of the price that she paid for being here in this beautiful environment, for being, in every material sense, a member of one of the state’s richest families.  She could not say, as she longed to say, “Oh, Emily, don’t talk rot!  You know that before your own grandfather made his money as a common miner, and when Isabel Wallace’s grandfather was making shoes, mine was a rich planter in Virginia!” But she knew that she could safely have treated Emily’s own mother with rudeness, she could have hopelessly mixed up the letters she wrote for Ella, she could have set the house on fire or appropriated to her own use the large sums of money she occasionally was entrusted by the family to draw for one purpose or another from the bank, and been quickly forgiven, if forgivness was a convenience to the Saunders family at the moment.  But to fail to realize that between the daughter of the house of Saunders and the daughter of the house of Brown an unspanned social chasm must forever stretch would have been, indeed, the unforgivable offense.

It was all very different from Susan’s old ideals of a paid companion’s duties.  She had drawn these ideals from the English novels she consumed with much enjoyment in early youth—­from “Queenie’s Whim” and “Uncle Max” and the novels of Charlotte Yonge.  She had imagined herself, before her arrival at “High Gardens,” as playing piano duets with Emily,