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Updated: May 29, 2025
He might follow her there, but, even if he did, she would have made the first right step, and could then plan the second. Susan imagined Bocqueraz in Auntie's sitting-room and winced in the dark. Perhaps the most definite stand she took in all these bewildering days was when she decided, with a little impatient resentment, that she was quite equal to meeting the situation with dignity here.
In her most sanguine moments she could dream that he had had news in Honolulu, his wife was dead, he had hurried home, he would presently come back to San Francisco, and claim Susan's promise. But for the most part she did not deceive herself; her friendship with Stephen Bocqueraz was over.
And when he said "Fool!" and returned grinning to his paper, she opened her London sheet and turned to the paragraph she had seen. Not sensational. Mr. Stephen Bocqueraz, the well-known American writer, and Mrs. Bocqueraz, said the paragraph, had taken the house of Mrs. Bromley Rose-Rogers for the season, and were being extensively entertained. Mr. and Mrs.
Susan could not keep the pleasure the meeting gave her out of her eyes and voice, and Billy showed a sort of boyish and bashful admiration of the writer, too. "But this this is a very felicitous occasion," said Mr. Bocqueraz. "We must celebrate this in some fitting manner!"
"I won't. I won't do anything you don't want me to!" Susan pressed her hand over her eyes; her knees felt so weak that she was afraid to move. Her breathing slowly grew more even. "My dear if you'll forgive me!" the man said repentantly. She gave him a weary smile, as she went to drop into her low chair before the fire. "No, no, Mr. Bocqueraz, I'm to blame," she said quietly.
She arraigned herself mentally before a jury of her peers, and pleaded her own case. She did not think of Stephen Bocqueraz to-night, thought of him indeed did not lead to rational argument! but she confined her random reflections to the conduct of other women. There was a moral code of course, there were Commandments.
Coleman had come to the open French window. "Come in, you idiots!" said Peter. "We're hunting for something to eat!" "You come out, it's a heavenly night!" Stephen said readily. "Nothing stirring," Mr. Coleman said, sauntering toward them nevertheless. "Don't you believe a word she says, Mr. Bocqueraz, she's an absolute liar!" "Peter, go back, we're talking books," said Susan, unruffled.
They want me to go with him." "What?" Bocqueraz asked slowly. He dropped her hands. "Oh, don't!" Susan said, stung by his look. "Would I have come straight to you, if I had agreed?" "You said 'no'?" he asked quickly. "I didn't say anything!" she answered, almost with anger. "I don't know what to do or what to say!" she finished forlornly.
And because she was an Irishman's daughter a thousand witticisms flashed in her speech, and her eyes shone like stars under the stimulus of another's wit and the admiration in another's eyes. It became promptly evident that Bocqueraz liked them both.
Writer, and a sort of cousin of Ella Saunders by the way, or else his wife is. He's just on from New York, and for a sort of rest, and he may go on to Japan for his next novel. Very remarkable fellow!" "A writer?" Susan looked interested. "Yes, you know him, of course. Bocqueraz that's who it is!" "Not Stephen Graham Bocqueraz!" ejaculated Susan, round-eyed. "Yes yes!" Mr.
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