He had expected a rapturous outburst, and perhaps some reassertion of wifely faith in the glorious future that awaited The Pageant of Alexander; and deep down under the lover's well-being the author felt a faint twinge of mortified vanity when Susy, leaping to her feet, cried out, ravenously and without preamble: "Oh, Nick, Nick—let me see how much they've given you!"
He flourished the cheque before her in the firelight. "A couple of hundred, you mercenary wretch!"
"Oh, oh—" she gasped, as if the good news had been almost too much for her tense nerves; and then surprised him by dropping to the ground, and burying her face against his knees.
"Susy, my Susy," he whispered, his hand on her shaking shoulder. "Why, dear, what is it? You're not crying?"
"Oh, Nick, Nick—two hundred? Two hundred dollars? Then I've got to tell you—oh now, at once!"
A faint chill ran over him, and involuntarily his hand drew back from her bowed figure.
"Now? Oh, why now?" he protested. "What on earth does it matter now—whatever it is?"
"But it does matter—it matters more than you can think!"
She straightened herself, still kneeling before him, and lifted her head so that the firelight behind her turned her hair into a ruddy halo.
