"Oh, no, she wouldn't," replied Suzanne determinedly. "You know, I know mama better than you think I do. I can rule her, I tell you. I know I can. I've done it."
She tossed her head in an exquisitely pretty way which upset Eugene's reasoning faculties. He could not think and look at her.
"Suzanne," he said, drawing her to him. "You are exquisite, extreme, the last word in womanhood for me. To think of your reasoning so—you, Suzanne."
"Why, why," she asked, with pretty parted lips and uplifted eyebrows, "why shouldn't I think?"
"Oh, yes, certainly, we all do, but not so deeply, necessarily, Flower Face."
"Well, we must think now," she said simply.
"Yes, we must think now," he replied; "would you really share a studio with me if I were to take one? I don't know of any other way quite at present."
"I would, if I knew how to manage it," she replied. "Mama is queer. She's so watchful. She thinks I'm a child and you know I am not at all. I don't understand mama. She talks one thing and does another. I would rather do and not talk. Don't you think so?" He stared. "Still, I think I can fix it. Leave it to me."
"And if you can you'll come to me?"
"Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Suzanne ecstatically, turning to him all at once and catching his face between her hands. "Oh!"—she looked into his eyes and dreamed.