"Oh no, Miss," she said eagerly, all her honest blood and good training coming to the rescue. "But I don’t think Lord Ruddington would do those sort of things." "You think. But you don’t know. Susan, I’m going to put you an old-fashioned question. Do you think it would be right to marry a man--never mind whether it’s Lord Ruddington, or Gibson, or any other man--if you didn’t love him?" I was trying my poor, honest Susan too searchingly. Tears again shone in her blue eyes. Her colour came and went. She turned away her head. "Never mind, Susan," I said, very much more kindly. "I can guess your answer. And I can read your mind. You don’t love Lord Ruddington. It isn’t possible you should, at present. But you think it will be so lovely to be Lady Ruddington that you mean to make yourself love him whatever happens." "Yes. That’s it, Miss," sobbed Susan. "I don’t deserve that you should be so kind to me, Miss." "The danger is, Susan, that we can’t depend on Love coming whenever we beckon to it. Perhaps Lord Ruddington is cold and unlovable. Perhaps he’s too passionate to be affectionate. Unless you can love him in return, his love will only torture you. Susan, make quite sure of your ground. You are not like other girls. A mistake of this kind would first sour you and then kill you. Think of it all in this light, and you will understand my answer to Lord Ruddington better." "I do, Miss," said Susan urgently. "I understand it quite well now. And I know it’s best. Please, Miss Gertrude, if you’ll show me how to address it I’ll send it to-night." I took up an envelope and addressed it to Lord Ruddington. "You know best, Miss," said Susan, glancing at the draft once more. "But ... but oughtn’t a girl like me to say ’your lordship’? Besides----" She checked herself. It was a new thing for Susan to question my judgment on any point, however small. "Besides what?" I asked. "Well, Miss, it seems to look strange beginning the letter without anything to start off, like." "Lord Ruddington set us the example," I explained. "I thought it was rather clever and delicate of him. He couldn’t write in the third person, could he? And he couldn’t very well call you ’Madam,’ or ’Dear Miss Briggs,’ or ’Dear Susan.’ No. It’s far better for both the letters to be as they are." "Thank you, Miss," said Susan, as humbly and teachably as she had ever spoken in her life. She has gone to her own room. I do hope she won’t write it out in that frightful, blotty school-girl hand. I ought to have told her to write more quickly and freely, and less as if she’s doing it with a paint-brush. Still, I’m deeply thankful we’re getting on so nicely. To-morrow, the glorious sea, and the cider, and dear old Sainte Véronique! 9.30 _p.m._ More worry and tangle. I feel all bruised and weak, as if I’d been battered about in the surf on a stony beach.