marvelled again at the
brightness of spirit that shone in her--like a flame through a fine
paper lantern. Susan, at Myrtle Forge. His thought became concrete; he
knew now, definitely, that he had determined to marry her. His peace of
mind increased. There was no need for hurry, the mere idea was
irradiating; yet there must be no unnecessary delay. Incontrovertibly he
had passed forty. The best period in a man's life. They would go to the
West Indies, he decided. A ring with a square emerald, and roses of
pearls. It was, almost immediately, time to retire. His room, narrow
with a sloping wall, had a small window giving on a flawless rectangle
of snow like the purity of Susan Brundon.

As he lay in bed, staring wakefully against the dark, another memory
crept into his thoughts--the echo of a small, querulous voice, "yellow
rock candy and syllabubs." Eunice! A sudden consternation seized him as
he realized the necessity of telling Susan fully about his daughter. No
escape, evasion, was possible. If she discovered the existence, the
history, of the child afterward--he lingered over the happiness that
term implied--it would destroy her. This, he told himself, was not
merely melodrama; he was thinking of her delicate spirituality, so
completely shielded from the bald fatality of facts. An increasing dread
seized him at the thought of the hurt his revelation would inflict on
her. The interweaving of life in life, consequence on consequence, the
unbroken intricacy of the whole fabric of existence, realized anew,
filled him with bitter rebellion. The blind commitment of a vanished
youth, potent after years, still hung in a dark cloud over Susan
Brundon. He was conscious of the past like an insuperable lead weight
dragging at his attempted progress. The secret errors of all the pasts
that had made him rose in a haggard, shadowy troop about his bed,
perpetuated, multiplied, against his aspirations of tranquil release.

Yet, he told himself, dressing in the bright flood of morning, if
nothing perished but the mere, shredding flesh, one quality persisted
equally with the other--the symbol of Essie Scofield was no more actual
than Susan. He had breakfast early, with Graham Jannan; and, in a
reviving optimism, arranged for the Jannans to bring Miss Brundon to
Myrtle Forge for a night before her departure. He whirled away, in a
sparkling veil of flung snow crystals, before the women appeared.

Susan Brundon would, naturally, shrink f