I mean to say, now and again, what France’s million officials, from the President of their so free Republic down to the Saint Véronique postman, daren’t say publicly and aloud in this land of liberty. I mean to say: "God save France!" _Thursday afternoon_. I wish Master Ruddie’s photograph would come. This morning, about eleven, a young Englishman suddenly walked in with a knapsack. The funny thing was that he didn’t come by the road. He marched here straight from the beach, as if he’d just been thrown up by Jonah’s whale. He was a nice boy, and quite all right. Not another Mr. John Lamb. It seems he’s tramping a hundred miles along the coast by the cliff-paths and the sands. He was dying to talk to me at lunch. Indeed, he looked even hungrier and thirstier for human companionship than for his omelette and roast chicken and cider, which is saying a very great deal. Now that it’s too late, I’m sorry I didn’t let him talk. All the time he was here, Susan was nearly as silly as she was on the boat. She got it into her head that, as Ruddington wrote here on Saturday (thinking we were coming straight through), he must have been upset when Tuesday morning came without a letter; and that therefore the pretty boy with the knapsack was certainly he. I was obliged to be very sharp with her. Heaven send the photograph soon! Because I will admit to this diary, when Susan has "a feeling" I can’t help catching the complaint. _Before dinner_. It’s just come. The photograph and a letter as well. He says the photograph was only taken yesterday morning. It’s a local thing, not retouched: so I suppose we can depend on it as a faithful likeness. If so, I must say I like him tremendously. Susan is disappointed that he has no moustache. He looks like a young and fresh version of some handsome and benevolent Judge or Cardinal. He isn’t the least bit flabby or silly-looking, as I expected. He has a scholar’s head, but he’s evidently a man of energy as well as of thought. I should say he has a tremendous will of his own. He doesn’t look the sort to have fallen over ears in love with a china shepherdess like Susan at first sight. But there’s the fact. And, although the stupid girl can’t see it, and "never thought he would be like that, Miss," I don’t know many women that wouldn’t feel it a compliment to have him in love with them, either at the first sight, or the second, or the fiftieth. He looks handsome without being dandified, and brainy without being dry. His letter this time is less old-fashioned and more easy. He says:-- MA CHÈRE SUZANNE,--You have commanded me not to say "My dear Susan," and behold! I obey.