Crosby suppresses a desire to laugh. Oh, how sweet—how sweet his little darling is!
‘Not even to me—your guide, philosopher, and friend? Susan’—he is looking into her eyes as if compelling an answer—‘he proposed to you again, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Susan, as if throwing a load off her mind; ‘and when I told him again that I couldn’t and wouldn’t—he—he was horrid. And he wanted——’ She stops.
‘Yes’—Crosby’s voice is sharp now—‘but you didn’t——’
‘No, no! But I hate him!’
‘So do I, with all my soul,’ says Crosby, more to himself, however, than for her hearing. He stands looking on the ground for a bit, and then:
‘So you have refused the gunner. Poor James! You don’t really care for him, then?’
‘I thought all the world knew that,’ says Susan. ‘Why’—with almost pathetic contempt—‘can’t he know it? It is unkind of him, isn’t it, to make me so unkind? But I can’t love him—I can’t!’ A little sigh escapes her.
The rose on the straggling bush above her is not sweeter or more beautiful than Susan is now, with her pretty bent head and her flower-like face, and all the delicate beauty of her soul shining through her earnest eyes.
A strange nervousness seizes on Crosby. He takes a step towards her, however, and takes both her hands in his strong clasp.