"Of course," said Celia; "and I'd like to be his godmother, if you'll let me?"
Susie swung round, her lips parted, her brows bent, and her eyes fixed on Celia's upturned face.
"You!" she said, as if she were panting. "You'll be a godmother to—him? And you know what he is—what I am? Her ladyship has told you?"
"Yes," said Celia, in a low voice.
"And you come here to me: you offer to—to do this! Don't you know that I was driven from my place, the place in which I was born, that every woman I've met, excepting her ladyship, would like to throw a stone at me? Why are you different from the others?"
"I don't know," said Celia, simply. "Perhaps it's because Lady Gridborough told me the whole story. But I'm—you see, I'm young, like yourself; and though I've mixed in the world, perhaps I haven't learnt to feel hardly as some of the folks you speak of do. I was going to say that I pity you, Susie; but I won't say that. I like you, I like to see you when you're looking at the child."
Susie turned away, her bosom heaving; there were no tears in her eyes, she had already wept them dry.
"And you mustn't look at me as if I were a stranger, as if I had come to see you out of impertinent curiosity only; I want to come to see you very often. I'm in love with Gerald—it is to be Gerald, isn't it?—already. And it will be such a pleasure to me to run in and see him as often as I can; indeed, I must look after him; I shall be his second mother, you see; and between us, we'll train him up in the way he should go, and make a good man of him."
She was smiling now; but there were tears in her eyes, though Susie's were still dry.
"I can't resist you," said Susie, at last. "I know it's wrong that you should be mixed up with one like me. Your friends——"