‘Oh! you can think him an Apollo if you like,’ says Susan, with a little shrug. Shrugs from Susan are so unexpected that Crosby regards her with interest. The unexpected is often very delightful, and certainly Susan, at this moment, with her little new petulant mood upon her, is as sweet as sunshine. It seems all at once to Crosby that he is seeing her now again for the first time, with a fresh idea of her. What a little slender maiden—and how beautiful, even in her thin ‘uneducated’ frock, that has so often seen the tub, and is of a fashion of five years ago! And yet, in a way, that old frock is kind to her—who would not be kind to her? It stands to her, in spite of its age. It throws out all the beauties of her delicately-built, but healthy young figure. Susan here, in this primitive gown, is Susan! Susan got up in silks and laces and satins, and all the fripperies of fashion, what would she be like? It is a question quickly answered. Why, she would be Susan too! Nothing could change that gentle, tender heart. He feels quite sure of that. It would only be Susan glorified! A Susan that would probably reduce to envy half the so-called society beauties of the season. Here he breaks through his thoughts, and comes back to the moment. ‘I don’t like your tone,’ says he reproachfully; ‘it savours of unkindness. And considering how long it is since last we met——’ Here Susan interrupts him, remorse tearing at her soul: ‘I know. Seven months.’ ‘You must have found it long,’ says Crosby. ‘I make it only twenty-two hours, and’—consulting his watch—‘sixteen minutes.’ ‘Oh! if you are alluding to yesterday,’ says Susan, with dignity that has a sort of disgust in it. ‘Of course.’ ‘I thought you were alluding to your being away in Germany. And as to finding it long’—resentfully—‘I think you must have found it very much longer, if you can count to a minute like that.’ Was there ever such a child? Crosby roars with laughter, though something in his laughter amounts to passionate tenderness. ‘Forgive me, Susan!’ He leans forward, and takes her hand. As he feels it within his—close clasped, and not withdrawn—and with Susan’s earnest eyes looking into his, words spring to his lips: ‘Susan, once you took me under your protection. Do you remember that old garden, and——’ Whatever he was going to say is here rudely broken in upon by the advance of James, who, though distinctly ugly, looks no longer dull. He seems now dreadfully wide-awake. Susan draws her hand quickly away, and Crosby, who believes she has done this lest James should see the too friendly attitude, is still further mortified by her manner. ‘I think I told you you were not to speak of that—that hateful day again,’ says she; and turning from him as if eternally offended, seats herself on a rug quite far away from him, and in such a position that James can find a resting-place at her feet—a fact he is very swift to see.