‘You are very kind. If you would care to have me,’ falters Susan disjointedly. Her eyes are on the ground. To spare Lady Forster a little of her time! As if Lady Forster would even care to know her! How could she (Susan) make herself at home with people like that—people who had lived in fashionable circles all their days—frivolous people like Lady Forster, and lovely people like Lady Muriel Kennedy? Had he called Lady Muriel lovely? ‘That is begging the question,’ says he, laughing. ‘Who wouldn’t care to have you? How silent you are, Susan! Not a word out of you. I’ll begin to think you are in love presently. People in love are always silent, dwelling on the beloved absent, no doubt.’ ‘I am not in love,’ says Susan, with singular distinctness. ‘Not even with “James”? I forget his other name. He would be a beloved absent, wouldn’t he?’ ‘Absent or present, he would not be beloved by me,’ says Susan calmly. She pauses. Her head is slightly turned from Crosby, so that only the perfect profile can be seen. The fingers of her right hand are lying tenderly on Bonnie’s sleeping head. The fingers of the left are plucking idly at the grass by her side. All at once she turns her glance straight on Crosby. ‘Were you ever in love?’ asks she. ‘Susan,’ says Crosby seriously, ‘I don’t think you ought to spring things upon one like that. My heart may be weak, for all you know; and, really, I begin to think of late that it is.’ He pauses. Susan remaining sternly unsympathetic, however, over this leading speech, he goes on. ‘What was your question?’ asks he. This sounds like basest subterfuge, and Susan casts a glance of scorn at him. ‘I asked you if you had ever been in love. Please don’t answer if you don’t want to. After all, I am sure I should not have asked you.’ ‘You can ask me anything you like,’ says Crosby with resignation. ‘Yours is to command, mine to obey. Yes’—comfortably, if surreptitiously, disposing himself on the tail of Susan’s gown—‘I acknowledge it. I have had my little disappointment. It was a frightful affair. I don’t believe anyone was ever so much in love as I was—then. I was just twenty-one, and she was just—something or other. It’s bad to remember a lady’s age. Any way, I know I loved her—I loved her,’ says Crosby, rising now to tragedy, ‘like anything. I can’t even at this hour speak of it without tears.’ ‘Oh, nonsense! you’re laughing,’ says Susan, with fine disgust. ‘I am not, indeed. It is hysterics. If only you had gone through half what I have, I might expect a little sympathy from you. However, to continue. She was lovely, Susan, and she was tall—taller than you. She had coal-black eyes, and a nose that I have always considered Roman. I adored her. I used to walk about o’ nights looking at the moon (when there was one), and telling myself it was the image of her.’