She and he are well behind the others now, and Crosby speaks again.
‘You don’t ask me why I am grateful,’ says he reproachfully. ‘Don’t you care to know? I care to tell you. I have had it on my mind since that day in the garden. You remember?’
‘Yes,’ says Susan. She stops short, and confronts him with flushed cheeks and nervous eyes, but a little touch of courage that sits most charmingly upon her. ‘I do remember. You—you were the man who——’ She hesitates.
‘Stole the cherries?’ suggests he.
‘No’—coldly—‘who sat on the top of the ladder and made fun of me.’
There is a little silence.
‘That is a most unkind speech,’ says Crosby at last. ‘After all, I don’t feel as grateful now as I did a minute ago. I came here to-day to thank you for looking so kindly after my property, and you meet me with an accusation that absolutely strikes me dumb.’
At this Susan cannot refrain from bitter jest.
‘True,’ says she scornfully; ‘one can see how silent you are.’
Mr. Crosby regards her with apparent awe, tempered with grief.