There’s been too much Ruddington. The inroads he makes on my Normandy rest-cure are absurd. I get my sun-bath and sea-bath every day; and that’s all. It’s time to put down my foot. Fortunately, Susan agrees with me. She does not tell me why she has so suddenly fallen out of love with the idea of being raised to the peerage. It may be that she quails and shrinks from a destiny that is altogether out of scale with her nature. More probably it is some trifle, such as Ruddington’s moustachelessness. But, although she gives no reasons, she agrees with me that it will be best to take the thing less busily for the next fortnight. I’ve pointed out to her that she knows as much about him now as she needs to know. It isn’t as though she has to decide, here at Sainte Véronique, whether she will marry Lord Ruddington. She has only to settle whether she will let him see her next month face to face--whether she will let him press in person a suit which she will still be free to refuse. We have decided that I shall write him a letter to-day such as will keep him quiet, and stop him bothering us. Then I shall be able to take a deep draught of my Normandy, as I take deep draughts of the cider. I have been here well over a week, and I hardly seem to have had one day free of him. _Later_. Here is my letter to her Henry, and it’s going to be posted whether Susan likes it or not: DEAR LORD RUDDINGTON,--Your letter and the big blue form amused me very much. It is interesting to have such an assortment of fresh facts about you--especially the obstinacy and the bad temper. It is good news that you hate motor-cars. Nor should we become estranged over tobacco. But these are trifles, aren’t they? I hope you will not think that I am taking myself too seriously, or that I am unthankful for the trouble you take in writing such kind and open and lively letters. But (now that I have your photograph and know so much more about you) I am conscious of a desire for a week or so of detachment from details. I feel that I would like to go about my ordinary life until some light breaks on me suddenly and of its own accord. The more I deliberately seek light, the more it mocks and eludes me. I suppose the reason is that no amount of steadily "making up" one’s mind can suffice instead of a free involuntary motion of the heart. As you wrote to me on Monday, you would not in any case be writing again till Monday next. I like to have your letters; but, if you postpone your reply to this until rather late next week, I shall have the better chance of deciding whether we ought to meet or not. Yours sincerely, SUSAN BRIGGS. _After lunch_. The letter’s gone. Susan says she likes it.