He went to one of the bookcases and presently came back to read to her from Phillips’ “Paolo and Francesca,” and from “The Book and the Ring.”  And never in later life did Susan read either without hearing his exquisite voice through the immortal lines: 

  “A ring without a poesy, and that ring mine? 
     O Lyric Love! ...”

  “O Lord of Rimini, with tears we leave her, as we leave a
       child,
     Be gentle with her, even as God has been....”

“Some day I’ll read you Pompilia, little Suzanne,” said Bocqueraz.  “Do you know Pompilia?  Do you know Alice Meynell and some of Patmore’s stuff, and the ’Dread of Height’?”

“I don’t know anything,” said Susan, feeling it true.  “Well,” he said gaily, “we’ll read them all!”

Susan presently poured his tea; her guest wheeling his great leather chair so that its arm touched the arm of her own.

“You make me feel all thumbs, watching me so!” she protested.

“I like to watch you,” he answered undisturbed.  “Here, we’ll put this plate on the arm of my chair,—­so.  Then we can both use it.  Your scones on that side, and mine on this, and my butter-knife between the two, like Prosper Le Gai’s sword, eh?”

Susan’s color heightened suddenly; she frowned.  He was a man of the world, of course, and a married man, and much older than she, but somehow she didn’t like it.  She didn’t like the laughter in his eyes.  There had been just a hint of this—­this freedom, in his speech a few nights ago, but somehow in Billy’s presence it had seemed harmless—–­

“And why the blush?” he was askingly negligently, yet watching her closely, as if he rather enjoyed her confusion.

“You know why,” Susan said, meeting his eyes with a little difficulty.

“I know why.  But that’s nothing to blush at.  Analyze it.  What is there in that to embarrass you?”

“I don’t know,” Susan said, awkwardly, feeling very young.

“Life is a very beautiful thing, my child,” he said, almost as if he were rebuking her, “and the closer we come to the big heart of life the more wonderful things we find.  No—­no—­don’t let the people about you make you afraid of life.”  He finished his cup of tea, and she poured him another.  “I think it’s time to transplant you,” he said then, pleasantly, “and since last night I’ve been thinking of a very delightful and practical way to do it.  Lillian—­Mrs. Bocqueraz has a very old friend in New York in Mrs. Gifford Curtis—­no, you don’t know the name perhaps, but she’s a very remarkable woman—­an invalid.  All the world goes to her teas and dinners, all the world has been going there since Booth fell in love with her, and Patti—­ when she was in her prime!—­spent whole Sunday afternoons singing to her!  You’ll meet everyone who’s at all worth while there now, playwrights, and painters, and writers, and musicians.  Her daughters are all married to prominent men; one lives in Paris, one in London, two near her; friends keep coming and going.  It’s a wonderful family.  Well, there’s a Miss Concannon who’s been with her as a sort of companion for twenty years, but Miss Concannon isn’t young, and she confided to me a few months ago that she needed an assistant,—­ someone to pour tea and write notes and play accompaniments—–­”