"You will escuse me further," she requested icily, motioning to retire.
"Not till—oh, not till you have forgiven me," he cried impulsively, barring her exit; for repentance had come swiftly this time.
But she did not forgive him. "I can wait," she said. Then he stepped aside and she passed by him without a second glance.
She sent word to Hector the following day to come to her. And when he was there, in the late afternoon, they walked together to the end of the vine-sheltered gallery,—where the air was redolent with the odor of spring blossoms.
"Hector," she began, after a while, "some one has told me I should not be seen upon the streets of New Orleans with you."
He was trimming a long rose-stem with his sharp penknife. He did not stop nor start, nor look embarrassed, nor anything of the sort.
"Indeed!" he said.
"But, you know," she went on, "if the saints came down from heaven to tell me there was a reason for it, I could n't believe them."
"You wouldn't believe them, ma petite Suzanne?" He was getting all the thorns off nicely, and stripping away the heavy lower leaves.
"I want you to look me in the face, Hector, and tell me if there is any reason."