"I caught nothing. You are a
stranger in these parts?"
Susan colored and a look of terror flitted into her eyes. "Yes,"
she admitted. "I'm--I'm passing through."
The young man had all he could do to conceal his amusement.
Susan flushed deeply again, not because she saw his expression,
for she was not looking at him, but because her remark seemed to
her absurd and likely to rouse suspicion.
"I suppose you came up here to see the view," said the man. He
glanced round. "It _is_ pretty good. You're not visiting down
Brooksburg way, by any chance?"
"No," replied Susan, rather composedly and determined to change
the subject. "What was that song I heard you singing?"
"Oh--you heard, did you?" laughed he. "It's the Duke's song from
`Rigoletto.'"
"That's an opera, isn't it--like `Trovatore'?"
"Yes--an Italian opera. Same author."
"It's a beautiful song." It was evident that she longed to ask
him to sing it. She felt at ease with him; he was so unaffected
and simple, was one of those people who seem to be at home
wherever they are.
"Do you sing?" he inquired.
"Not really," replied she.
"Neither do I. So if you'll sing to me, I'll sing to you."
Susan looked round in alarm. "Oh, dear, no--please don't," she cried.
"Why not?" he asked curiously. "There isn't a soul about."
"I know--but--really, you mustn't."
"Very well," said he, seeing that her nervousness was not at all
from being asked to sing.
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