"Very largely for you, that you may have the chance to win this lady who may be all in all to you."
"I am grateful," said Marius simply. "For indeed I want little else but that same lady—we shall not trouble Rose."
They had turned away from the lake into a little grove of Eastern shrubs, myrtles, laurels and oleanders; Susannah's skirt trailing over the fallen fragrant leaves made a pleasant sound; she softly closed the parasol.
"Has she written to you, Marius?"
"No," he looked away, "but she said she would not be returning to London till September, and, of course, it does not matter whether she writes or no."
"You are so sure of her?" breathed Susannah.
"So sure," he smiled.
"Not even knowing her name!"
He lifted a bough of myrtles from the path.
"I called her in my fancy 'Aspasia' from Mr. Fletcher's play, 'twas enough; I only spoke to her twice; the first time we said so little! the second time I gave her my name and she gave me her picture. 'I will write to you,' she said—and so—and so——"