"Just--one--moment--" she said pleadingly. For two or three moments there was silence.
"No, it's my fault," Susan said then, more composedly, pushing her hair back from her forehead with both hands, and raising her wretched eyes. "Oh, how could I--how could I!" And again she hid her face.
Stephen Bocqueraz did not speak, and presently Susan added, with a sort of passion:
"It was wicked, and it was COMMON, and no decent woman--"
"No, you shan't take that tone!" said Bocqueraz, suddenly looking up from a somber study of the fire. "It is true, Susan, and--and I can't be sorry it is. It's the truest thing in the world!"
"Oh, let's not--let's NOT talk that way!" All that was good and honest in her came to Susan's rescue now, all her clean and honorable heritage. "We've only been fooling, haven't we?" she urged eagerly. "You know we have! Why, you--you--"
"No," said Bocqueraz, "it's too big now to be laughed away, Susan!" He came and knelt beside her chair and put his arm about her, his face so close that Susan could lay an arresting hand upon his shoulder. Her heart beat madly, her senses swam.
"You mustn't!" said Susan, trying to force her voice above a hoarse whisper, and failing.
"Do you think you can deceive me about it?" he asked. "Not any more than I could deceive you! Do you think I'M glad--haven't you seen how I've been fighting it--ignoring it--"
Susan's eyes were fixed upon his with frightened fascination; she could not have spoken if life had depended upon it.