"But France is a very big country, Gibson," I said. "Far larger than England. Even if I did object to you, we shouldn’t be likely to meet. You couldn’t learn to be a chauffeur at Saint Véronique. It’s the last place in the world. That’s why I go there." Gibson looked at me narrowly. "I thank you, Ma’am," he said curtly and proudly. And he made room for me to pass. In his own fashion, Gibson is as good and as likable as Susan. Never till this week has either of them caused me the slightest anxiety. I saw in a flash how matters stood; and I felt in my heart that Gibson deserved the more sympathy of the two. He was deeper-natured than Susan: prouder and capable of a grand passion which my sweeter and shallower Susan could neither receive nor return. His clean-shaven face was almost as handsome as Susan’s was pretty; and if he had enjoyed Susan’s advantages instead of being brought up among grooms and stable-boys, he might have been as refined. Rather rashly, I let myself go and said: "No, Gibson, I’m not going in yet. You have not told me what it is that is really troubling you. There is something on your mind." He stood stock-still at the path-side and vouchsafed no answer for a long time. At last he said abruptly: "Then you won’t prevent me, Ma’am, coming to France?" "How could I stop you? France is a free country. I couldn’t make the French army shoot you, or the French police lock you up. But I’d better say plainly, Gibson, that I object to you coming to Sainte Véronique unless I send for you." The colour mounted to Gibson’s cheeks. He drew himself up and seemed to take some sudden decision. He was about to speak, when the clatter of buckets at the pump, where Hughes was gone for water, drew his gaze to the beloved stables. I followed his eyes as they ranged over the red roofs which had sheltered him at work and at play, at bed and at board, both in Grandma’s time and mine, ever since he came to Traxelby as a half-fed boy of fourteen. He heard Nero’s neighing and Boxer’s answering bark; and I could see that he suffered. But these dear old sights and sounds did not soften his face for long. He pulled himself together again, and began decisively: "Then if you please, Ma’am, with all respect----" "No, Gibson," I said, like lightning; "don’t finish. Let me finish for you. You were going to say that you give me notice, that you will leave this old place, that you’ll give up everything, just to be a free man. No. Don’t interrupt. Above all, do have just a little bit of common sense. For instance, instead of giving up Traxelby simply so that you can come to Sainte Véronique, how would it be if you told me like a sensible man what you want to come to Sainte Véronique for?" He struggled hard with his pride. I helped him out. "Surely you can trust me, Gibson?" "I don’t say I can’t, Ma’am." "Very well, Gibson," I answered shortly "I’ve done my best. Good-night."