‘He’s been stupid very often of late, hasn’t he? Look here’—severely—‘you are suppressing something; either you or he (and you for choice, I should say, judging by the obvious guilt upon your countenance) have been doing something of which you are thoroughly ashamed. Even such small signs of grace are to be welcomed, but in the meantime I think a fuller confession would make for the good of your soul. Come, what have you been doing?’ ‘It was James a moment ago,’ says she slowly. ‘Was it?’—quickly—‘I thought as much. But what was he doing a moment ago?’ ‘Nonsense’—flushing hotly—‘you know what I mean—that it was James you were accusing a moment ago.’ ‘True! And it should have been you. I am in fault this time, then. That makes a third.’ ‘No, indeed, because I am not in fault at all.’ ‘Then it was the immaculate one! What of him? Has he been at his old game again: chasing you round the garden to——’ ‘Mr. Crosby!’ There is indignant protest in her tone, but the rich colour that rises to her cheek tells him that his guess has been at least partly accurate. ‘Not that,’ says he. ‘Foolish James!’ Even as he says these idle words he is cursing James up hill and down dale for the abominable impertinence of him. No little shred of allowance for James’ honest love for this pretty maiden enters into his heart. ‘Well—go on! That is only a negative statement—if it is a statement at all.’ ‘There is nothing to tell. And’—she pauses—‘and, any way, I won’t tell it,’ says she. Crosby suppresses a desire to laugh. Oh, how sweet—how sweet his little darling is! ‘Not even to me—your guide, philosopher, and friend? Susan’—he is looking into her eyes as if compelling an answer—‘he proposed to you again, didn’t he?’ ‘Oh yes,’ says Susan, as if throwing a load off her mind; ‘and when I told him again that I couldn’t and wouldn’t—he—he was horrid. And he wanted——’ She stops. ‘Yes’—Crosby’s voice is sharp now—‘but you didn’t——’ ‘No, no! But I hate him!’ ‘So do I, with all my soul,’ says Crosby, more to himself, however, than for her hearing. He stands looking on the ground for a bit, and then: ‘So you have refused the gunner. Poor James! You don’t really care for him, then?’ ‘I thought all the world knew that,’ says Susan. ‘Why’—with almost pathetic contempt—‘can’t he know it? It is unkind of him, isn’t it, to make me so unkind? But I can’t love him—I can’t!’ A little sigh escapes her. The rose on the straggling bush above her is not sweeter or more beautiful than Susan is now, with her pretty bent head and her flower-like face, and all the delicate beauty of her soul shining through her earnest eyes. A strange nervousness seizes on Crosby. He takes a step towards her, however, and takes both her hands in his strong clasp. ‘Susan, am I too old?’ says he.