"Well, then, you go and I'll stay," Susan said, in annoyance, "but it's perfect rubbish!"
"No, you go," Emily said, pettishly.
Susan went, perhaps six feet; turned back.
"I wish you'd go," she said, in dissatisfaction.
"If I did," Emily said, in a low, quiet tone, still looking out of the window, "it would be simply because of the looks of things!"
"Well, go because of the looks of things then!" Susan agreed cheerfully.
"No, but you see," Emily said eagerly, turning around, "it DOES look odd--not to me, of course! But mean odd to other people if you go and I don't-don't you think so, Sue?"
"Ye-es," drawled Susan, with a sort of bored and fexasperated sigh. And she went to her own room to write letters, not disappointed, but irritated so thoroughly that she could hardly control her thoughts.
At five o'clock, dressed in a childish black velvet gown--her one pretty house gown--with the deep embroidered collar and cuffs that were so becoming to her, and with her hair freshly brushed and swept back simply from her face, she came downstairs for a cup of tea.
And in the library, sunk into a deep chair before the fire, she found Stephen Bocqueraz, his head resting against the back of the chair, his knees crossed and his finger-tips fitted together. Susan's heart began to race.