His gentle Lordship does not condescend to state whether, in the event of Susan being "set free," he will forthwith send me, carriage paid, a new maid as fanciable and wholesome as Susan, with feet that move about, like Susan’s, as quietly as two mice. But, of course, as I’m merely "somebody not fit to lace Susan’s shoes," I don’t count. To-morrow there’ll be the worry of sending off an answer. What will he say when he sees Susan’s own handwriting? And how shall we explain the first letter being in mine? I suppose Susan had better make a clean breast of it. I expect his infatuation is proof even against Susan’s blots and pot-hooks. Now for bed. _Mardi; midi moins quart_. I have drunk coffee, with a big bright soup-spoon, out of a little white bowl with pink rosebuds inside and out. Also, I have eaten four _croissants_ and a shameful quantity of Normandy butter. This was at eight o’clock. Since then I have followed the beck all the way to the sea; have bathed; have climbed the cliff; and have been to the post-office for stamps. Through the window I can see Georgette placing a blinding cut-glass decanter of fresh-drawn, foamy cider, full in the sun, on my table in the orchard. As Susan would say, "a feeling came over me" where the beck runs past the poplars. I couldn’t help stamping my heel on the ground and saying, "It is true that I am back in Normandy." After lunch, there’ll be my letter to Alice. I sha’n’t say anything about Ruddington, except that she mustn’t go on being a tease. Then there’ll be Susan’s letter to the Lord of Burleigh. It would be inhuman to make him wait for it any longer. Georgette has just brought out a melon. Its minutes are numbered. I haven’t felt so hungry for ages. I wonder what Mr. Lamb is doing, and what yarn he has spun at Amelia Road? Poor Gibson, too! If I were Susan, I think I’d send him just a Sainte Véronique post-card. _Deo gratias!_ "_C’est servi!_" _Tuesday night_. I am like a bird in a net. After lunch, Susan came to me and begged pardon for asking if I "hadn’t forgotten the post." "No," I answered, "it doesn’t go out for five hours. By the way, Susan, what are you going to say to Lord Ruddington?" Her face fell. "Please, Miss," she said, "I was thinking ... perhaps you would write the letter for me." "No, Susan," I replied promptly, "I can’t do that. If talking it over will help you, I’m willing. I don’t mind even scribbling something out in pencil. But I can’t write it. Surely it’s bad enough that he’s had one letter in my handwriting. I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. Besides, you’ll have to write the letters yourself before long, so why not face it at once? We shall need to think out some way of explaining to him why the other handwriting was different." While I was speaking, Susan was becoming more and more agitated; and when I ceased, she didn’t answer. "Come, Susan," I said kindly. She began to weep.