But there must be no hesitation, no compromise.  Susan fell asleep resolving upon heroic extremes.

Just before dinner, on the evening following, she was at the grand piano in the big drawing-room, her fingers lazily following the score of “Babes in Toyland,” which Ella had left open upon the rack.  Susan felt tired and subdued, wearily determined to do her duty, wearily sure that life, for the years to come, would be as gray and sad as to-day seemed.  She had been crying earlier in the day and felt the better for the storm.  Susan had determined upon one more talk with Bocqueraz,—­the last.

And presently he was leaning on the piano, facing her in the dim light.  Susan’s hands began to tremble, to grow cold.  Her heart beat high with nervousness; some primitive terror assailed her even here, in the familiar room, within the hearing of a dozen maids.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, as she did not smile.

Susan still watched him seriously.  She did not answer.

“My fault?” he asked.

“No-o.”  Susan’s lip trembled.  “Or perhaps it is, in a way,” she said slowly and softly, still striking almost inaudible chords.  “I can’t--I can’t seem to see things straight, whichever way I look!” she confessed as simply as a troubled child.

“Will you come across the hall into the little library with me and talk about it for two minutes?” he asked.

“No.”  Susan shook her head.

“Susan!  Why not?”

“Because we must stop it all,” the girl said steadily, “All, every bit of it, before we—­before we are sorry!  You are a married man, and I knew it, and it is all wrong—­”

“No, it’s not all wrong, I won’t admit that,” he said quickly.  “There has been no wrong.”

It was a great weight lifted from Susan’s heart to think that this was true.  Ended here, the friendship was merely an episode.

“If we stop here,” she said almost pleadingly.

“If we stop here,” he agreed, slowly.  “If we end it all here.  Well.  And of course, Sue, chance might, might set me free, you know, and then—­”

Again the serious look, followed by the sweet and irresistible smile.  Susan suddenly felt the hot tears running down her cheeks.

“Chance won’t,” she said in agony.  And she began to fumble blindly for a handkerchief.

In an instant he was beside her, and as she stood up he put both arms about her, and she dropped her head on his shoulder, and wept silently and bitterly.  Every instant of this nearness stabbed her with new joy and new pain; when at last he gently tipped back her tear-drenched face, she was incapable of resisting the great flood of emotion that was sweeping them both off their feet.

“Sue, you do care!  My dearest, you do care?”

Susan, panting, clung to him.

“Oh, yes—­yes!” she whispered.  And, at a sound from the hall, she crushed his handkerchief back into his hand, and walked to the deep archway of a distant window.  When he joined her there, she was still breathing hard, and had her hand pressed against her heart, but she was no longer crying.