‘Certainly,’ says Crosby, laughing; ‘though she and Dom, or both, bring down all the anathemas in the world on my head.’ He starts on his quest, a little glad, indeed, to get away from the others. Early in the afternoon he had had a little tiff with Susan—just a small thing, a mere breeze, and certainly of his own creating. He had said something about James—why the deuce can’t he leave James alone? But it seems he can’t of late; and Susan had been a little, just a little—what was it?—offended? Well, put out in some way, at all events. Perhaps after all she does care for James. Like to like, you know—and youth to youth; and there can be but a year or two between him and Susan. At this moment there is a quick movement of the branches on his left; someone is pushing the laurel bushes aside with an angry, impatient touch, and now—— Susan has stepped into view; a new Susan—angry, pale, hurried. Her soft eyes are dark and frowning, but as she sees Crosby they lighten again, and grow suddenly thick with tears. Then, as though in him lie comfort and protection, she runs to him, holding out her hands. He catches them, and saying nothing, draws her down the bank and into a little leafy recess that leads to a small wood beyond. The touch of her hand is good to him. She has forgiven, then, that late little conflict. She can be angry with James, too, it seems. Confound that fool! What has he been saying to her? ‘Well?’ says he. CHAPTER LVII. ‘My lady is so fair and dear That all my heart to her is given; One word she whispered in my ear, And earth for me was changed to heaven.’ He has held one of her hands all the time, but now she releases it. She has recovered herself marvellously, but there is still a good deal of nervousness in the laugh that breaks from her as she seats herself in the old rustic seat in the corner. ‘Well—what?’ She is evidently prepared to carry it off boldly. ‘You don’t mean to tell me there was no reason for that look in your eyes just now?’ There is a very obstinate look in his own eyes just now, at all events. ‘What look?’ ‘Susan,’ says Crosby, with a solemn shake of his head, ‘you might as well give it up at once. You were never made for this sort of thing. You wouldn’t take in a new-born infant. Come, get it off your mind. Make your confession. What has the immaculate James been doing?’ ‘James!’ She tries to look surprised, but breaks down ignominiously. ‘Oh, nothing’—hurriedly—‘nothing.... Nothing at all, really! Only—he’s so stupid!’