Mr. Burgess was scrutinizing the telegram again.
“I want you to dine with us this evening—as a special favor, you know. It’s rather sudden, but Mrs. Burgess has a sudden way of doing things. Just as I left my office I got this wire ordering me to produce the most presentable girl I could find for dinner. Pendleton hates big functions, but I nailed Billy Merrill at the club on my way up, according to instructions—you can always get Billy; but I went through the telephone book without finding any unattached woman of suitable age I would dare take a shot at, knowing my wife’s prejudices. And then I looked over here and saw you.”
His manner conveyed, with the utmost circumspection, the idea that seeing her had brightened the world considerably.
“Certainly, Mr. Burgess,” replied Susie, without the slightest hesitation or qualm. “At seven, did you say?”
“Seven-thirty we’d better say. There’s my machine and I’ve got to go to the station to meet them.”
As Susan, the thing would have been impossible; as Susie, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Burgess was backing down the steps. Every instant reduced the possibility of retreat; but the fact was, that she exulted in her sin. She was an impostor and she rejoiced shamelessly in being an impostor. And yet it did not seem altogether square to accept Mr. Burgess’s invitation to dinner when it would undoubtedly involve him in difficulties with his wife, whom she had never seen in her life.
Burgess paused and wheeled round abruptly.
Her Susiness experienced a shock—the incident, in her hasty conjecture, was already closed—for he said:
“By-the-way, what is your name anyhow?”
“Susie,” she said, lifting her chin Susily.