"Oh, of course," Susannah murmured. "I always called her Glorious Lutie. She always called me Glorious Susie--that is when she didn't call me _Cherie_. And we had a game--the Abracadabra game. When she was telling me a story--her stories were _marvels_; they went on for days and days--and she got tired, she could always stop it by saying, Abracadabra! If I didn't reply instantly with Abracadabra, the story stopped. Of course she always caught my little wits napping--I was so absorbed in the story that I could only stutter and pant, trying to remember that long word." "That's a Peter Ibbetson trick," Lindsay commented. * * * * * The talk, thus begun, lasted for the three hours which elapsed before Miss Stockbridge's return. Two narratives ran through their talk; Lindsay's, which dealt with superficial matters, began with his return to America from France; Susannah's, which began with that sad day, fifteen years ago, when she saw Blue Meadows for the last time. But neither narrative went straight. They zig-zagged; they curved, they circled. Those deviations were the result of racing up squirrel tracks of opinion and theory; of little excursions into the allied experiences of youth; even of talks on books. Once it was interrupted by the noiseless entry of Mrs. Spash, who deposited a tray which contained a glass of milk, a pair of dropped eggs, a little mound of buttered toast. Susannah suddenly found herself hungry. She drained her glass, ate both eggs, devoured the last crumb of toast. After this, she felt so vigorous that she fell in with Lindsay's suggestion that she walk to the door. There she stood on the door-stone for a preoccupied, half-joyful, half-melancholy interval studying the garden. Then, leaning on his arm, she ventured as far as the seat under the copper-beech. Later, even, she went to the barn and the Dew Pond. Before she could get tired, Lindsay brought her back, reestablishing her in the chair. Then--and not till then--and following another impulse to confide in Lindsay, Susannah told him the whole story of the Carbonado Mining Company. Perhaps his point of view on that matter gave her her second accession of vitality. He paced up and down the room during her narrative; his hands, fists. But he laughed their threats to scorn. "Now don't give another thought to that gang of crooks!" he adjured her. "I know a man in New York--a lawyer. I'll have him look up that crowd and put the fear of God into them. They'll probably be flown by that time, however. Undoubtedly they were making ready for their getaway. Don't think of it again. They can't hurt you half as much as that bee that's trying to get in the door." He was silent for a moment, staring fixedly down at his own manuscript on the table. "By God!" he burst out suddenly, "I've half a mind to beat it on to New York. I'd like to be present. I'd have some things to say--and do."