“One hundred dollars for a story, Susan.  It looked a little fortune!”

“And were you married then?”

“Married?” He smiled.  “My dear child, Mrs. Bocqueraz is worth almost a million dollars in her own right.  No—­we have never faced poverty together!” There was almost a wistful look in his eyes.

“And to whom is this book going to be dedicated?” asked Susan.

“Well, I don’t know.  Lillian has two, and Julie has one or two, and various men, here and in London.  Perhaps I’ll dedicate this one to a bold baggage of an Irish girl.  Would you like that?”

“Oh, you couldn’t!” Susan said, frightened.

“Why couldn’t I?”

“Because,—­I’d rather you wouldn’t!  I—­and it would look odd!” stammered Susan.

“Would you care, if it did?” he asked, with that treacherous sudden drop in his voice that always stirred her heart so painfully.

“No-o—–­” Susan answered, scarcely above a whisper.

“What are you afraid of, little girl?” he asked, putting his hand over hers on the desk.

Susan moved her hand away.

“Because, your wife—–­” she began awkwardly, turning a fiery red.

Bocqueraz abruptly left his seat, and walked to a window.

“Susan,” he said, coming back, after a moment, “have I ever done anything to warrant—­to make you distrust me?”

“No,—­never!” said Susan heartily, ashamed of herself.

“Friends?” he asked, gravely.  And with his sudden smile he put his two hands out, across the desk.

It was like playing with fire; she knew it.  But Susan felt herself quite equal to anyone at playing with fire.

“Friends!” she laughed, gripping his hands with hers.  “And now,” she stood up, “really I mustn’t interrupt you any longer!”

“But wait a moment,” he said.  “Come see what a pretty vista I get—­ right across the Japanese garden to the woods!”

“The same as we do upstairs,” Susan said.  But she went to stand beside him at the window.

“No,” said Stephen Bocqueraz presently, quietly taking up the thread of the interrupted conversation, “I won’t dedicate my book to you, Susan, but some day I’ll write you a book of your own!  I have been wishing,” he added soberly, his eyes on the little curved bridge and the dwarfed shrubs, the pond and the stepping-stones across the garden, “I have been wishing that I never had met you, my dear.  I knew, years ago, in those hard, early days of which I’ve been telling you, that you were somewhere, but—­but I didn’t wait for you, Susan, and now I can do no more than wish you God-speed, and perhaps give you a helping hand upon your way!  That’s all I wanted to say.”

“I’m—­I’m not going to answer you,” said Susan, steadily, composedly.

Side by side they looked out of the window, for another moment or two, then Bocqueraz turned suddenly and catching her hands in his, asked almost gaily: