There’s a new Marie. The old Marie, with the red hair, who wouldn’t more than half-fill my water-jugs, left only last week. The new Marie is a black-haired, black-eyed one, and far nicer. There’s a letter for me from Alice. And, of course, there’s a letter for Susan from the regrettable Ruddington. But I’m not going to bother with either of them till I’ve had a peep at the path that winds along the beck to the sea. _In the summer-house_. I do wish Alice wouldn’t! She’s found out somehow that Ruddington was at the Towers all through the last week of her visit. She’s quite vicious about my running away. According to her first three pages, I "must get married some day," and Lord Ruddington has been, so to speak, restored to the county by Divine Providence for the express purpose of taking pity on my old-maidhood. To scamper off to Sainte Véronique is, therefore, to fly in Providence’s face. Yet, according to Alice’s fourth page, my flight to France looks "far more pointed" than if I’d stolidly stuck at home. If a mere logical triumph were worth a single drop of ink, I might twit Alice with the inconsistency. If it’s true that the calculating coyness of my maiden flight has already put it into His Highness’s head that I am one of the candidates, I might fairly claim Alice’s praise instead of her blame. I shouldn’t care so much if Alice weren’t so insistently practical. She positively wants me to race back next week; and she says she can even manage Hugh, so that he’ll bring her with him, and do his bird-slaughtering at Traxelby instead of at Maxfield. No doubt she is confident that, by October the 2d, the bag will be twenty pheasants, a dozen partridges, and one Lord. I wonder what Alice would say if I wrote straight off and told her that Lord Ruddington, to my certain knowledge, has already disposed of his charms elsewhere? I wish I could tell her. It would be such hollow, tiresome work arguing with her on every ground save the solid fact. _Monday night_. The Lamb in Wolf’s Clothing gave me a bad twenty-four hours on the boat and in Dieppe; but he has certainly done a power of good to Susan. She hasn’t got over her surprise at my not giving her a lecture and a mighty scolding; and she’s brimming over with silent gratitude. Ruddington’s letter is irritating, but, in a sense, rather nice. I didn’t ask Susan to show it to me. I thought it would keep very well till to-morrow. But Susan has laid it inside my blotting-case. Rather graceful of her--unless she’s afraid that a personal delivery of it would remind me of Mr. John Lamb, and wake up a dormant volcano! Here is the letter:-- RUDDINGTON TOWERS, Saturday, September 8, 1906. MY DEAR SUSAN,--I may begin this way, may I not? Your letter this morning has brought me unspeakable relief and happiness. When Thursday’s and Friday’s posts were blank, I hardly restrained myself from waylaying you at Traxelby.