e little, idle simplicities which
amused and fascinated him.

"Suzanne," he said dramatically at this time, "you are taking me back
into fairyland."

"I want to make you happy," she said, "as happy as I am."

"If I could be! If I only could be!"

"Wait," she said; "be cheerful. Don't worry. Everything will come out
all right. I know it will. Things always come right for me. I want you
and you will come to me. You will have me just as I will have you. Oh,
it is all so beautiful!"

She squeezed his hand in an ecstasy of delight and then gave him her
lips.

"What if someone should see?" he asked.

"I don't care! I don't care!" she cried. "I love you!"

CHAPTER XII

After dining joyously, these two returned to the city. Suzanne, as she
neared New York proper, was nervous as to what Angela might have done,
for she wanted, in case Angela told her mother, to be present, in order
to defend herself. She had reached a rather logical conclusion for her,
and that was, in case her mother objected too vigorously, to elope with
Eugene. She wanted to see just how her mother would take the
intelligence in order that she might see clearly what to do. Previously
she had the feeling that she could persuade her mother not to interfere,
even in the face of all that had been revealed. Nevertheless, she was
nervous, and her fears were bred to a certain extent by Eugene's
attitude.

In spite of all his bravado, he really did not feel at all secure. He
was not afraid of what he might lose materially so much as he was of
losing Suzanne. The thought of the coming child had not affected them at
all as yet. He could see clearly that conditions might come about
whereby he could not have her, but they were not in evidence as yet.
Besides, Angela might be lying. Still at odd moments his conscience
troubled him, for in the midst of his intense satisfaction, his keenest
thrills of joy, he could see Angela lying in bed, the thought of her
wretched future before her, the thought of the coming life troubling
her, or he could hear the echo of some of the pleas she had made. It was
useless to attempt to shut them out. This was a terrible ordeal he was
undergoing, a ruthless thing he was doing. All the laws of life and
public sentiment were against him. If the world knew, it would accuse
him bitterly. He could not forget that. He despaired at moments of ever
being able to solve the tangle in which he had involved himself, and yet
he was d