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Updated: June 29, 2025
"Oh, let's not let's NOT talk that way!" All that was good and honest in her came to Susan's rescue now, all her clean and honorable heritage. "We've only been fooling, haven't we?" she urged eagerly. "You know we have! Why, you you " "No," said Bocqueraz, "it's too big now to be laughed away, Susan!"
I didn't see the younger sister. I must get back to the Jeromes," said Lydia; "they began to take pictures, and I'd thought I run away for a little peep at everything, all to myself! They say that we shore people will have to leave the ship at quarter of twelve." She fluttered away, and a second later Susan found her hand covered by the big glove of Stephen Bocqueraz.
Bocqueraz she's a wonderful woman for this sort of thing! shall write to your aunt, or whoever is in loco parentis, and you shall come on to New York for a visit. And while you're there " He broke off, raised his eyes from a study of the fire, and again sent her his sudden and sweet and most disturbing smile. "Oh, don't talk about it!" said Susan. "It's too good to be true!"
"Any plan for to-day, Sue?" asked her aunt. Susan jumped nervously. "Goodness, Auntie! I didn't see you there! Yes, you know I have to go and see Mr. Bocqueraz off at eleven." "Oh, so you do! But you won't go back with the others, dear? Tell them we want you for Christmas!" "With the others?" "Miss Ella and Emily," her aunt supplied, mildly surprised. "Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, I suppose so.
In these days Susan read old poems with a thrill, read "Trilby" again, and found herself trembling, read "Adam Bede," and shut the book with a thundering heart. She went, with the others, to "Faust," and turned to Stephen Bocqueraz a pale, tense face, and eyes brimming with tears. The writer's study, beyond the big library, had a fascination for her.
But when Stephen Bocqueraz entered the picture, so near, so kind, so big and protecting, Susan thought as if her heart would burst, she opened her eyes, the color flooding her face. The cemetery was empty, dark, silent. The glowing visions faded, and Susan made one more conscientious effort to think of herself, what she was doing, what she planned to do.
Everybody knew, in their little circle, that, in the nicest and most elder- brotherly way possible, Stephen Bocqueraz thought Susan Brown the greatest fun in the world, and quoted her, and presented her with his autographed books. This side of the affair, being real, had a tendency to make it all seem real, and sometimes confused, and sometimes a little frightened Susan.
"I'm not so crazy about it. Not Paris, you know, but some dinky resort." "Oh, but fancy the ocean trip and meeting the village people and New York!" Susan exclaimed. "I think every instant of traveling would be a joy!" And the vision of herself in all these places, with Stephen Bocqueraz as interpreter, wrung her heart with longing. Kenneth was watching her closely.
O'Connor was calm and alert; so normal in manner and speech indeed that merely watching her had the effect of suddenly cooling Susan's blood, of reducing her whirling thoughts to something like their old, sane basis. Travel was nothing to Mrs. O'Connor; farewells were the chief of her diet; and her manner with Stephen Bocqueraz was crisp and quiet.
They talked of music and musicians, and Bocqueraz and Billy argued and disputed, and presently the author's card was sent to the leader of the orchestra, with a request for the special bit of music under discussion. They talked of authors and poets and painters and actors, and he knew many of them, and knew something of them all.
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