But it was flesh and blood nevertheless.

“I interrupted you in something you were saying when I left the office,” she said quietly.

“I was speaking of Susy,” returned Clarence eagerly; “and”—­

“Then you needn’t go on,” interrupted Mrs. Peyton quickly.  “I understand you, and believe you.  I would rather talk of something else.  We have not yet arranged how I can make restitution to you for the capital you sank in saving this place.  You will be reasonable, Mr. Brant, and not leave me with the shame and pain of knowing that you ruined yourself for the sake of your old friends.  For it is no more a sentimental idea of mine to feel in this way than it is a fair and sensible one for you to imply that a mere quibble of construction absolves me from responsibility.  Mr. Sanderson himself admits that the repossession you gave us is a fair and legal basis for any arrangement of sharing or division of the property with you, that might enable you to remain here and continue the work you have so well begun.  Have you no suggestion, or must it come from me, Mr. Brant?”

“Neither.  Let us not talk of that now.”

She did not seem to notice the boyish doggedness of his speech, except so far as it might have increased her inconsequent and nervously pitched levity.

“Then suppose we speak of the Misses Hernandez, with whom you scarcely exchanged a word at dinner, and whom I invited for you and your fluent Spanish.  They are charming girls, even if they are a little stupid.  But what can I do?  If I am to live here, I must have a few young people around me, if only to make the place cheerful for others.  Do you know I have taken a great fancy to Miss Rogers, and have asked her to visit me.  I think she is a good friend of yours, although perhaps she is a little shy.  What’s the matter?  You have nothing against her, have you?”

Clarence had stopped short.  They had reached the end of the pear-tree shadows.  A few steps more would bring them to the fallen south wall of the garden and the open moonlight beyond, but to the right an olive alley of deeper shadow diverged.

“No,” he said, with slow deliberation; “I have to thank Mary Rogers for having discovered something in me that I have been blindly, foolishly, and hopelessly struggling with.”

“And, pray, what was that?” said Mrs. Peyton sharply.

“That I love you!”

Mrs. Peyton was fairly startled.  The embarrassment of any truth is apt to be in its eternal abruptness, which no deviousness of tact or circumlocution of diplomacy has ever yet surmounted.  Whatever had been in her heart, or mind, she was unprepared for this directness.  The bolt had dropped from the sky; they were alone; there was nothing between the stars and the earth but herself and this man and this truth; it could not be overlooked, surmounted, or escaped from.  A step or two more would take her out of the garden into the moonlight, but always into this awful frankness of blunt and outspoken nature.  She hesitated, and turned the corner into the olive shadows.  It was, perhaps, more dangerous; but less shameless, and less like truckling.  And the appallingly direct Clarence instantly followed.