It is a question quickly answered. Why, she would be Susan too! Nothing could change that gentle, tender heart. He feels quite sure of that. It would only be Susan glorified! A Susan that would probably reduce to envy half the so-called society beauties of the season.
Here he breaks through his thoughts, and comes back to the moment.
‘I don’t like your tone,’ says he reproachfully; ‘it savours of unkindness. And considering how long it is since last we met——’
Here Susan interrupts him, remorse tearing at her soul:
‘I know. Seven months.’
‘You must have found it long,’ says Crosby. ‘I make it only twenty-two hours, and’—consulting his watch—‘sixteen minutes.’
‘Oh! if you are alluding to yesterday,’ says Susan, with dignity that has a sort of disgust in it.
‘Of course.’
‘I thought you were alluding to your being away in Germany. And as to finding it long’—resentfully—‘I think you must have found it very much longer, if you can count to a minute like that.’
Was there ever such a child? Crosby roars with laughter, though something in his laughter amounts to passionate tenderness.