When I had recovered enough gravity, I tried, for the twentieth time, to give Susan a rudimentary lesson in French. She endured my efforts with deference; but, underneath, I could see that her rustic British prejudice against France and all things French is unshaken. I honestly believe that, in Susan’s opinion, to have set foot in France at all is a slight lapse from propriety, and a loss of the finest bloom from the soft cheek of one’s maiden virtue. In France, the silly creature won’t even touch beef, just because of some stupid tale of Gibson’s about a roast horse. She firmly believes that out-and-out Frenchmen eat bullfrogs toasted whole on a fork; and that the French language is a ludicrous disability imposed on the natives by a strictly Protestant Deity as a just punishment for being papists and foreigners. Susan doesn’t intend to lower herself by learning French any more than by learning to stammer, or to swear. "What about your photograph, Susan?" I inquired, changing the subject. "You see he wants one. Did you happen to bring one with you?" "No, Miss. It’s two years since I had it took." "Taken. Not took. Then what are you going to do?" "I don’t know, Miss." "You ought to oblige him," I said. "Don’t be so limp. Look at the trouble he took to get you his own portrait the very same day. I’m almost sure there’s a photographer at Grandpont. Madame will know. It’s only three miles. We’ll go in the morning." "Oh no, Miss!" gasped Susan, fluttering suddenly into liveliness. "Not in France, Miss!" "Why not in France?" "I shouldn’t like to be photographed in France, Miss," said Susan decidedly. For a moment I almost felt as if I had proposed mixed bathing to the rector’s virgin aunt. To be photographed in France sounded a degree or two worse than going to church _décolletée_. But a moment later I felt impatient and annoyed. "Very well, Susan," I said shortly. "You may be sure I don’t want to drag myself to Grandpont. Do whatever you please." As usual, she became immediately and amply and sincerely penitent. "It was very kind of you, Miss," she said humbly. "You’re always too good to me. But I feel I couldn’t go and be photographed in France." "Then don’t go and be photographed in France," I said, still ruffled. "So far as I’m concerned, it’s settled and done with. Now I want to read the newspaper." I could see with half an eye that there were uncountable things which Susan was yearning to talk over; but I was nearly at the end of my good-nature. With the little that remained, I tried to let Susan down gently. I picked up Lord Ruddington’s photograph again and said: "At any rate, you can’t find much fault with his looks." "No, Miss," responded Susan tepidly, "but I did think he would have a moustache." _Friday, sunrise_. An apple-branch has tapped at my window, and a lark is singing eagerly in the near sky.