"I felt it," he declared. "And when she sang love songs I could hardly keep from rushing up to you. Susie, we must see each other."
"I can come here, almost any day."
"But people'd soon find out—and they'd say all sorts of things.
And your uncle and aunt would hear."
There was no disputing anything so obvious.
"Couldn't you come down tonight, after the others are in bed and the house is quiet?" he suggested.
She hesitated before the deception, though she felt that her family had forfeited the right to control her. But love, being the supreme necessity, conquered. "For a few minutes," she conceded.
She had been absorbed; but his eyes, kept alert by his conventional soul, had seen several people at a distance observing without seeming to do so. "We must separate," he now said. "You see, Susie, we mustn't be gossiped about. You know how determined they are to keep us apart."
"Yes—yes," she eagerly agreed. "Will you go first, or shall I?"
"You go—the way you came. I'll jump the brook down where it's narrow and cut across and into our place by the back way. What time tonight?"
"Arthur's coming," reflected Susie aloud. "Ruth'll not let him stay late. She'll be sleepy and will go straight to bed. About half past ten. If I'm not on the front veranda—no, the side veranda—by eleven, you'll know something has prevented."