Do not think me grudging or cold-blooded in standing fast to our arrangement. If letters are too frequent they will be short and scrappy, and thus they will fail of their object. For example, nothing could be more devoted and kind than your two notes this week; but they tell me so little about yourself, and hardly anything at all about your daily life, your thoughts, your work, your interests. At present I know no more about you than all Traxelby knew before you came to the Towers. It is true there is the photograph, which I like very much--though you don’t in the least resemble the picture my mind had formed! You were good to take all that trouble in Derlingham so as to get it done so quickly. Unfortunately, I have no photograph of myself here, and there is no artist, not even a pasty-faced one, in Sainte Véronique. But why should you want my portrait if you have seen me three times? I sha’n’t expect an answer from you "by return;" but I _shall_ expect your next week’s letter to tell me more about yourself and your life. Yours sincerely, SUSAN BRIGGS. Susan thinks my letter is beautiful, as usual. Or, if she doesn’t think so, she says she does. But to know that she needn’t be photographed in France has lifted such a weight off her spirits that she is prepared to be delighted with everything. After the first shock and the second explanation, she went up into heaven at finding that it was "proper" to say "Dear Lord Ruddington." Perhaps she expected me to begin the letter by calling him "Pa!" It’s all very amusing. But I must keep a watch on myself lest I take it too prankishly. After the future Lady Ruddington had graciously signified her approval of my reply to her noble owner, she went upstairs for her hat, and, while she was away, a madcap impulse got the better of me, just as it did on Tuesday. I picked up the pen and wrote along the margin:-- I was amused about those Byronic curls. But what do _you_ know about them taking hours to do at night? Now that it’s too late, and Susan is on her way to the post-office, I do wish I hadn’t said it. For half a dozen reasons, it was a mad thing to do. His portrait is still facing mine in the leather frame. I took a peep at it just now when I came upstairs for this diary. And we’ve still got the same sort of a "Good-morning, Dear," honeymoon expression. I positively blushed, and put it down again as if it had been red hot. I must see that Susan plods away at her handwriting--or, rather, at mine! It’s plain now that Ruddington is in love with Susan, and that he means to marry her. Also, it’s plain that Susan means to marry Lord Ruddington, whether she succeeds in falling in love with him or not. Up to the present no great harm is done, but I must wriggle out of the affair somehow before his letters become intimate and affectionate. Poor, poor Gibson! I’ve written him a line, and shall post it myself. _Sunday, noon_.