A very considerable proportion of Hudson's income found its way, if not directly, indirectly, into her pockets. She wheedled him well, though he was no fool. But what young man can look through the glamour that surrounds a beautiful and clever woman? He deceives himself willingly, and believes she is an angel, though he knows how silly he is to believe so. Susan understood her man, and she thought it worth her while to take considerable trouble over his conquest. Cautiously she wove her web around him. She did not yield her heart (?) too soon, but kept him for some time in suspense. How candid she appeared to be! One day she placed her daintily-gloved hand gently on his arm, and looking openly into his eyes, said: "Ah! Mr. Hudson, it is very kind of you to take so much interest in me--to do so much for me; but I will not deceive you; you must not speak to me again of love. I cannot love. I am deeply grateful--I like you very much--but I will never, never love you!" He poured out a flood of wild protestations of undying, boundless affection; he implored, lamented, made oaths, and so forth, as is usual with men under like circumstances. "No!" she went on with a sigh--"no, Mr. Hudson, I dare not love again. I know how sweet is love--no one better. Sometimes I think I was created only to love and be loved. But after that one terrible disappointment, I dare never love again. Oh, Mr. Hudson!"--looking at him with swimming eyes, and speaking in thrilling tones--"how can I ever trust a man again?--to trust and be deceived--to love and then to lose! Oh, it would kill me! I can never allow my poor heart to love again." Then of course followed fresh protestations and oaths of constancy from the victim, to which she only replied by a piteous sigh. This sort of thing went on for a fortnight or so; then she got sick of it. She thought that there had been quite enough of this preliminary play; and that the time had come for her to yield gracefully to his importunity. One fine Sunday afternoon, they were walking together in Kew gardens. "Do you not like me a little bit?" asked Hudson, imploringly. "Of course I like you. You are my dearest--my only friend!" "But cannot you love me, my darling? Oh! indeed you can trust me--this is no boy's love of mine! I am old enough to know my own mind. I love you as few men ever loved a woman, as I never knew that I myself could love. You are the one thing in the whole world to me. Trust me--this is no passing fancy." A profound sigh was her sole reply. She was rather proud of her sighs; they were wonderfully expressive. "Cannot you love me a _little_, Edith?" She called herself Edith to her young men as being a more euphonious name than Susan. Her answer this time was a nervous stirring up of the sand with her parasol, and a downcast look and silence.