‘That only shows to what poor use you have put your looking-glass,’ says he, and Susan laughs involuntarily as at a most excellent joke. Crosby, glancing at her and noting her sweet unconsciousness, feels a strong longing to take her hand and draw it within his arm and hold it, but from such idyllic pleasures he refrains. The dusky shades are growing more pronounced now: ‘Eve saddens into night.’ The long and pretty road, bordered by overhanging trees, though still full of light just here, looks black in the distance, and overhead ‘The pale moon sheds a softer day, Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam.’ After a little silence Susan turns her head and looks frankly at him. ‘Are you going to be married to her?’ asks she, gently and quite naturally. ‘What!’ says Crosby. He is honestly amazed, and conscious of some other feeling, too, that brings a pucker to his forehead. ‘Good heavens, no! what put that into your head?’ ‘I don’t know. I——’ She has grown all at once confused, and a pink flush is warming her cheek. ‘Of course I shouldn’t have asked you that. But she is so lovely, and I thought—I fancied——I am afraid’—her eyes growing rather misty as they meet his in mute appeal—‘you think me very rude.’ ‘I never think you anything but just what you are,’ says Crosby slowly. ‘I wonder if you could be rude if you tried. I doubt it. However, don’t try. It would spoil you. As for Lady Muriel, she wouldn’t look at me.’ Susan remains silent, pondering over this. Would he look at her? ‘Should you like her to?’ asks she at last. ‘To look at me?’ Crosby is now openly amused. ‘A cat may look at a king, you know.’ ‘Oh, but she——’ ‘Is not the cat? That’s rude, any way. Susan, I take back all the handsome things I said of you just now. So I’m the cat, and she is the queen, I suppose. Well, no; I don’t want Queen Muriel to look at me. It would be rather embarrassing, considering all things. She is a very high and mighty young lady, you know, and I’m terribly shy. On the whole, Susan’—he pauses, and studies her a minute—‘I should prefer you to look at me.’ His studying goes for naught; not a vestige of blush appears on Susan’s face or any emotion whatever. His little flattery has gone by her. ‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ says she. ‘Do I? You are often very deep, you know; but if you mean that perhaps I should like to marry Lady Muriel—well, I shouldn’t.’ ‘How strange!’ says Susan. ‘I think if I were a man I should be dreadfully in love with her.’ Crosby laughs. ‘So you think you could be dreadfully in love?’ says he. Susan’s lips part in a little smile. ‘Oh, not as it is. I was only thinking of Lady Muriel ... and you—that you ought to be——’ ‘Dreadfully in love? How do you know I am not—with somebody else?’ She shakes her head. ‘No, you are not,’ says she. ‘After all, I think you are just as little likely to be dreadfully in love with anyone as I am.’ ‘Susan! You are growing positively profound,’ says he.