“No,” said Bocqueraz, “it’s too big now to be laughed away, Susan!” He came and knelt beside her chair and put his arm about her, his face so close that Susan could lay an arresting hand upon his shoulder.  Her heart beat madly, her senses swam.

“You mustn’t!” said Susan, trying to force her voice above a hoarse whisper, and failing.

“Do you think you can deceive me about it?” he asked.  “Not any more than I could deceive you!  Do you think I’m glad—­haven’t you seen how I’ve been fighting it—­ignoring it—­”

Susan’s eyes were fixed upon his with frightened fascination; she could not have spoken if life had depended upon it.

“No,” he said, “whatever comes of it, or however we suffer for it, I love you, and you love me, don’t you, Susan?”

She had forgotten herself now, forgotten that this was only a sort of play—­forgotten her part as a leading lady, bare-armed and bright-haired, whose role it was to charm this handsome man, in the soft lamplight.  She suddenly knew that she could not deny what he asked, and with the knowledge that she did care for him, that this splendid thing had come into her life for her to reject or to keep, every rational thought deserted her.  It only seemed important that he should know that she was not going to answer “No.”

“Do you care a little, Susan?” he asked again.  Susan did not answer or move.  Her eyes never left his face.

She was still staring at him, a moment later, ashen-faced and helpless, when they heard Bostwick crossing the hall to admit Ella and her chattering friends.  Somehow she stood up, somehow walked to the door.

“After nine!” said Ella, briskly introducing, “but I know you didn’t miss us!  Get a card-table, Bostwick, please.  And, Sue, will you wait, like a love, and see that we get something to eat at twelve—­ at one?  Take these things, Lizzie.  Now.  What is it, Stephen?  A four-spot?  You get it.  How’s the kid, Sue?”

“I’m going right up to see!” Susan said dizzily, glad to escape.  She went up to Emily’s room, and was made welcome by the bored invalid, and gladly restored to her place as chief attendant.  When Emily was sleepy Susan went downstairs to superintend the arrangements for supper; presently she presided over the chafing-dish.  She did not speak to Bocqueraz or meet his look once during the evening.  But in every fiber of her being she was conscious of his nearness, and of his eyes.

The long night brought misgivings, and Susan went down to breakfast cold with a sudden revulsion of feeling.  Ella kept her guest busy all day, and all through the following day.  Susan, half-sick at first with the variety and violence of her emotions, had convinced herself, before forty-eight hours were over, that the whole affair had been no more than a moment of madness, as much regretted by him as by herself.

It was humiliating to remember with what a lack of self-control and reserve she had borne herself, she reflected.  “But one more word of this sort,” Susan resolved, “and I will simply go back to Auntie within the hour!”