"Indeed. You think, possibly, Miss Disbrow might get round me, eh?"
"Well, she might—if I wasn't here," said Susan. "She might marry you."
My explosion of laughter—I am ordinarily a quiet person—startled Susan. "Have I said something awful again?" she cried.
"Dreadful!" I sputtered, wiping my eyes. "Why, you little goose! Don't you see how I need you? To plumb the depths for me—to protect me? I thought I was your guardian, Susan; but that's just my mannish complacency. I'm not your guardian at all, dear. You're mine."
But I saw at once that my mirth had confused her, had hurt her feelings. . . . I reached out for her hands and drew her upon my knees.
"Susan," I said, "Miss Disbrow couldn't marry me even if she got round me, and wanted to. You see, I have a wife already."
Susan stared at me with wide, frightened eyes. "You have, Ambo? Where is she?"
"She left me two years ago."
"Left you?" It was evident that she did not understand. "Oh—what will she say when she comes home and finds me here? She won't like it; she won't like me!" wailed Susan. "I know she won't."
"Hush, dear. She's not coming home again. She made up her mind that she couldn't live with me any more."