"Most decidedly not," I answered, so emphatically that Susan positively jumped. "I haven’t the ghost of a notion where in the world you’ll be married. But it mustn’t be Traxelby. Lord Ruddington will propose some suitable arrangement, and I shall see that it is satisfactory. Besides, all this can be talked over later on. It will be time enough to choose where you’ll be married to Lord Ruddington when you’ve made up your mind whether you’re going to marry him at all." The bride began to pout. I decided swiftly that it was high time to bring matters to a head. Traxelby church, indeed! As likely as not, Susan would expect me to be a bridesmaid, with Uncle Bob giving her away, and Aunt Martha calling him "Pa." So I shut up the _Chouans_ with a snap and put the question straight. "Tell me, Susan. Have you made up your mind? If you’ve settled it that you mean to marry Lord Ruddington, we shall know where we are." The pout vanished, and she hung her head. At last she answered: "Yes, Miss. I mean, I’m not sure yet, Miss. But I’m sure that I shall be sure before long." "Sure that you’ll marry him?" "Yes, Miss. I mean ... I think I shall." I could get no more out of her, and in the end I turned surlier and snappier than I care to remember. Susan went to bed looking miserable. This morning my conscience woke up as early as I did. Earlier: for it was wide awake while I was still half asleep, and I groped out into consciousness with a sense of recent meanness and unkindness to Susan. The more I woke, the clearlier I saw how natural it was of Susan, who knows no French and can speak with nobody here save me, to want to talk frocks. When she came in at seven o’clock to open the curtains, I said in my friendliest tone: "Well, Susan, I suppose you’ve decided to be married in white, with orange-blossoms and a veil?" To my consternation she remained at the window, and did not turn round. Then she plunged for the door into her own room, and as she seized the handle, I heard a sob. I jumped up and followed her to the threshold. "Come, come, Susan!" I said. "You mustn’t have such a thin skin. I never meant to hurt your feelings." "You haven’t, Miss," sobbed Susan, standing near me, but not showing her face. "It isn’t you, Miss. But I can’t bear it!" "You can’t bear what?" "All of it, Miss. None of it. I woke up and thought about it in the night. It’s dreadful!" I couldn’t guess what Susan couldn’t bear, or what it was that was dreadful, and it didn’t seem wise to press her. So I said nothing. "You’ll take cold, Miss," she cried, when she cast her first glance at me. And she bundled me back into bed. I told her that she needn’t have her breakfast with Georgette, and that she ought to drink chocolate instead of coffee.