Stephen Bocqueraz, on the Sunday following their second meeting, called upon his wife’s mother’s cousin.  Mrs. Saunders was still at the hospital, and Emily was driven by the excitement of the occasion behind a very barrier of affectations, but Kenneth was gracious and hospitable, and took them all to the hotel for tea.  Here they were the center of a changing, admiring, laughing group; everybody wanted to have at least a word with the great man, and Emily enjoyed a delightful feeling of popularity.  Susan, quite eclipsed, was apparently pleasantly busy with her tea, and with the odds and ends of conversation that fell to her.  But Susan knew that Stephen Bocqueraz did not move out of her hearing for one moment during the afternoon, nor miss a word that she said; nor say, she suspected, a word that she was not meant to hear.  Just to exist, under these conditions, was enough.  Susan, in quiet undertones, laughed and chatted and flirted and filled tea-cups, never once directly addressing the writer, and never really addressing anyone else.

Kenneth brought “Cousin Stephen” home for dinner, but Emily turned fractious, and announced that she was not going down.

“You’d rather be up here just quietly with me, wouldn’t you, Sue?” coaxed Emily, sitting on the arm of Susan’s chair, and putting an arm about her.

“Of course I would, old lady!  We’ll send down for something nice, and get into comfortable things,” Susan said.

It hardly disappointed her; she was walking on air.  She went demurely to the library door, to make her excuses; and Bocqueraz’s look enveloped her like a shaft of sunlight.  All the evening, upstairs, and stretched out in a long chair and in a loose silk wrapper, she was curiously conscious of his presence downstairs; whenever she thought of him, she must close her book, and fall to dreaming.  His voice, his words, the things he had not said ... they spun a brilliant web about her.  She loved to be young; she saw new beauty to-night in the thick rope of tawny hair that hung loosely across her shoulder, in the white breast, half-hidden by the fold of her robe, in the crossed, silk-clad ankles.  All the world seemed beautiful tonight, and she beautiful with the rest.

Three days later she came downstairs, at five o’clock on a gloomy, dark afternoon, in search of firelight and tea.  Emily and Kenneth, Peter Coleman and Mary Peacock, who were staying at the hotel for a week or two, were motoring.  The original plan had included Susan, but at the last moment Emily had been discovered upstairs, staring undecidedly out of the window, humming abstractedly.

“Aren’t you coming, Em?” Susan had asked, finding her.

“I—­I don’t believe I will,” Emily said lightly, without turning.  “Go on, don’t wait for me!  It’s nothing,” she had persisted, when Susan questioned her, “Nothing at all!  At least,” the truth came out at last, “at least, I think it looks odd.  So now go on, without me,” said Emily.