‘I thought,’ says Susan gravely, ‘that you promised never to speak of that again.’
‘Of what—respect?’
‘No, of that’—reluctantly—‘that day in the garden.’ The dawn of a blush appears upon her face, and her eyes rest on him reproachfully. ‘You are not to be depended on,’ says she.
‘Oh, Susan!’
His air is so abject that, in spite of herself, Susan laughs, and presently she holds out her hand to him with the sweetest air. ‘Any way, I have to thank you a thousand times for having had my Bonnie’s picture taken,’ says she. ‘And I know you knew that I wished for it.’ She gives him her hand. Tears rise to her eyes. ‘You could never know how I wished for it,’ says she.
CHAPTER XXXV.
‘Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you;
Should I begin to speak, my soul’s so full
That I should talk of nothing else all day.’
‘Now, Miss Manning,’ says Wyndham, in his quick, alert, business-like way. He steps back, and motions her to go through the gateway that Mrs. Denis had opened about three inches a minute ago.