“I reckon. But what's that to do with his politeness to you?”
“And do her parents know him?” she continued, without replying.
“How do I know? I suppose everybody has heard of him. Why?”
“Because I think they've taken a fancy to each other.”
“What in the name of folly, Ally”—began the despairing Peyton.
“When you invite a handsome, rich, and fascinating young man into the company of young ladies, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton, in her severest manner, “you must not forget you owe a certain responsibility to the parents. I shall certainly look after Miss Rogers.”
CHAPTER V.
Although the three young people had left the veranda together, when they reached the old garden Clarence and Susy found themselves considerably in advance of Mary Rogers, who had become suddenly and deeply interested in the beauty of a passion vine near the gate. At the first discovery of their isolation their voluble exchange of information about themselves and their occupations since their last meeting stopped simultaneously. Clarence, who had forgotten his momentary irritation, and had recovered his old happiness in her presence, was nevertheless conscious of some other change in her than that suggested by the lengthened skirt and the later and more delicate accentuation of her prettiness. It was not her affectation of superiority and older social experience, for that was only the outcome of what he had found charming in her as a child, and which he still good-humoredly accepted; nor was it her characteristic exaggeration of speech, which he still pleasantly recognized. It was something else, vague and indefinite,—something that had been unnoticed while Mary was with them, but had now come between them like some unknown presence which had taken the confidante's place. He remained silent, looking at her half-brightening cheek and conscious profile. Then he spoke with awkward directness.
“You are changed, Susy, more than in looks.”