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Updated: May 29, 2025
Billy, beyond the remark that Bocqueraz certainly was a king, also had little to say, but his frequent yawns indicated that it was rather because of fatigue than of visions. The house was astir when they reached it, but the confusion there was too great to give anyone time to notice the hour of their return.
But but you're not free, Mr. Bocqueraz." He was standing close behind her, as she stood staring out into the night, and now put his arm about her, and Susan, looking up over her shoulder, raised childlike blue eyes to his. "How long are you going to call me that?" he asked. "I don't know Stephen," she said. And suddenly she wrenched herself free, and turned to face him.
Sometimes I think I'm going crazy!" "My poor little girl!" They were in a sheltered bit of road now, and Bocqueraz put his two hands lightly on her shoulders, and stopped her short. Susan rested her two hands upon his arms, her eyes, raised to his, suddenly brimmed with tears. "My poor little girl!" he said again tenderly, "we'll find a way out!
Susan felt tired and subdued, wearily determined to do her duty, wearily sure that life, for the years to come, would be as gray and sad as to-day seemed. She had been crying earlier in the day and felt the better for the storm. Susan had determined upon one more talk with Bocqueraz, the last. And presently he was leaning on the piano, facing her in the dim light.
She went away with her list, pleasure and excitement and a sort of terror struggling together in her heart. Pleasure prevailed, however, when Stephen Bocqueraz was really established at "High Gardens," and the first nervous meeting was safely over. Everybody in the house was the happier and brighter for his coming, and Susan felt it no sin to enjoy him with the rest.
"I think it's time to transplant you," he said then, pleasantly, "and since last night I've been thinking of a very delightful and practical way to do it. Lillian Mrs. Bocqueraz has a very old friend in New York in Mrs. Gifford Curtis no, you don't know the name perhaps, but she's a very remarkable woman an invalid.
"I begin to think you can do anything you want to do!" She had a reminder of his greatness even before they left the tea- room, for while they were walking up the wide passage toward the arcade, a young woman, an older woman, and a middle-aged man, suddenly addressed the writer. "Oh, do forgive me!" said the young woman, "but AREN'T you Stephen Graham Bocqueraz?
But she went to stand beside him at the window. "No," said Stephen Bocqueraz presently, quietly taking up the thread of the interrupted conversation, "I won't dedicate my book to you, Susan, but some day I'll write you a book of your own!
Over all her musing poured the warm flood of excitement and delight that the thought of Stephen Bocqueraz invariably brought. Her most heroic effort at self-blame melted away at the memory of his words. What nonsense to treat this affair as a dispassionate statement of the facts might represent it!
"Because, your wife " she began awkwardly, turning a fiery red. Bocqueraz abruptly left his seat, and walked to a window. "Susan," he said, coming back, after a moment, "have I ever done anything to warrant to make you distrust me?" "No, never!" said Susan heartily, ashamed of herself. "Friends?" he asked, gravely. And with his sudden smile he put his two hands out, across the desk.
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