“La! Mr. Meadows,” cried Susan, arching her brows, “why, it is a frightful name—it is so old-fashioned; nobody is christened Susan nowadays.”
“It is a name for everything that is good and gentle and lovely—” A moment more and passion would have melted all the icy barriers prudence and craft had reared round this deep heart. His voice was trembling, his cheek flushing; but he was saved by—an enemy. “Susan!” cried a threatening voice at the door, and there stood William Fielding with a look to match.
Rage burned in Meadows' heart. He said bruskly, “Come in,” and seizing a slip of paper he wrote five words on it, and taking out a book flung it into the passage to Crawley. He then turned toward W. Fielding, who by this time had walked up to Susan. Was on the other side of the screen.
“Was told you had gone in here,” said William quietly, “so I came after you.”
“Now that was very attentive of you,” replied Susan ironically. “It is so nice to have a sensible young man like you following forever at one's heels—like a dog.”
A world of quiet scorn embellished this little remark.
William's reply was happier than usual. “The sheep find the dog often in their way, but they are all the safer for him.”
“Well, I'm sure,” cried Susan, her scorn giving way to anger.
Mr. Meadows put in: “I must trouble you to treat Miss Merton with proper respect when you speak to her in my house.”
“Who respects her more than I?” retorted William; “but you see, Mr. Meadows, sheep are no match for wolves when the dog is away—so the dog is here.”