But he had stopped short. In a tone so correctly sincere that a suspicious person might perhaps have doubted the sincerity of the man using it, he said:
"What was in your mind? What did you think? What did you—suspect me of? For I see in that honest, telltale face of yours that it was a suspicion."
"I didn't blame you," protested the girl, "even if it was so. I thought maybe you got to thinking it over—and—didn't want to be bothered with anyone so troublesome as I had made myself."
"How could you suspect me of such a thing?"
"Oh, I really didn't," declared she, with all the earnestness of a generous nature, for she read into his heightened color and averted eyes the feelings she herself would have had before an unjust suspicion. "It was merely an idea. And I didn't blame you—not in the least. It would have been the sensible——"
Next thing, this child-woman, this mysterious mind of mixed precocity and innocence, would be showing that she had guessed a Cousin Nell.
"You are far too modest," interrupted he with a flirtatious smile. "You didn't realize how strong an impression you made. No, I really broke my leg. Don't you suppose I knew the twenty-five in the pocketbook wouldn't carry you far?" He saw—and naturally misunderstood—her sudden change of expression as he spoke of the amount. He went on apologetically, "I intended to bring more when I came. I was afraid to put money in the note for fear it'd never be delivered, if I did. And didn't I tell you to write—and didn't I give you my address here? Would I have done that, if I hadn't meant to stand by you?"
Susan was convinced, was shamed by these smooth, plausible assertions and explanations. "Your father's house—it's a big brick, with stone trimmings, standing all alone outside the little town—isn't it?"
Spenser was again coloring deeply. "Yes," admitted he uneasily.
But Susan didn't notice. "I saw the doctor—and your family—on the veranda," she said.