“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 nobility, 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 class.  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 brimming with tears.