This sort of thing went on for a fortnight or so; then she got sick of it. She thought that there had been quite enough of this preliminary play; and that the time had come for her to yield gracefully to his importunity.
One fine Sunday afternoon, they were walking together in Kew gardens.
"Do you not like me a little bit?" asked Hudson, imploringly.
"Of course I like you. You are my dearest—my only friend!"
"But cannot you love me, my darling? Oh! indeed you can trust me—this is no boy's love of mine! I am old enough to know my own mind. I love you as few men ever loved a woman, as I never knew that I myself could love. You are the one thing in the whole world to me. Trust me—this is no passing fancy."
A profound sigh was her sole reply. She was rather proud of her sighs; they were wonderfully expressive.
"Cannot you love me a little, Edith?" She called herself Edith to her young men as being a more euphonious name than Susan.
Her answer this time was a nervous stirring up of the sand with her parasol, and a downcast look and silence.
"Oh, Edith! I do so hunger for your love," he urged again. "Can you not give me a little for all this love of mine? Oh, my darling! if you can only give me back a hundredth part of my love for you, I shall be satisfied."