"Susie," he said slowly, "you don't say you're going to give him up?"
He had dropped his vile pronunciation, and had strangely regained the simple dignity with which he had spoken to me at Traxelby.
"Not that you're going to give him up?" he repeated.
"Yes, yes, yes!" said Susan. "I don't want him! I won't have him! I can't bear him! Take me away!"
"And if I do," he asked intently, "can you bear me, Susie? Will you have _me_?"
"Oh, Tom, of course I will!" she wailed, clinging to him with all her might. And, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe, she gave him a resounding rustic kiss.
Behind our bush we recoiled a little, both from them and from one another.
"We won't," I said, pinching his arm to keep him quiet. So we looked away while Gibson returned the kiss, not once, or twice, or thrice.
"Susie," demanded Gibson at last, "what is his name? Who is he?"
"His name," proclaimed Susan, after an effective delay, "is Lord Ruddington."
Gibson let her fall from his embrace like a stone. He sprang back a man's length.
"Oh yes, of course," he said mockingly, when he had found his breath. "Lord Ruddington, _alias_ the King of Spain, alias the Emperor of Russia! Of course!"
"Honour bright, it's true!" said Susan indignantly. "If it isn't, may I be struck down dead. His lordship fell over his head in love with me in Traxelby church."
"Susie, this is true?" he demanded, striding up to her and speaking fiercely. "This is true?"
Gibson leaned against a tree and thought for some time. At last he straightened himself up, and said, in low excited tones:
"Look here, Susie, this makes a difference. You don't think I'm going to help you miss a chance like that? Haven't I always said you're fit to be a duchess? No, Susie, it isn't good enough. D'ye think I'm going to let you throw yourself away on a poor thirty-bob-a-week devil like me?"
"Oh don't, Tom, don't!" she pleaded, clinging to him again. "Don't! or you'll make me change my mind."
"There isn't a finer gentleman in all England nor Lord Ruddington," said Gibson.
"What is the matter with him?" demanded Gibson. "It isn't his money. No, nor his horses. Perhaps it's his looks?"
"We'd better be going!" I whispered to Ruddington, behind our bush.
"No, no," protested Susan, "it isn't his looks. When I put him in that folding frame, facing Miss Langley, they looked lovely--just like Royalty. No, it isn't his looks. I could put up with that."