It would have driven him stark mad if our Traxelby choir-master, with his petty efficiency and trivial thoroughness, could have heard the Bérigny organ pounding and blaring, and the Bérigny faithful bawling "Credo" through their noses. An untuneful but hearty lad on my left sang the whole creed through in Latin without a book. I wonder, would our Traxelby youths be a shade less loutish, a shade nearer to these courteous villagers of Bérigny, if they too were taught to dip a cup in the main stream of human culture, and to quaff ever so small a draught? I imagine it must be the beginning of a revolution, even in the humblest mind, when it makes room for fifty words of a language other than its own. _Sunday night_. Yes, I have some traces of will-power. I have wanted to ask Susan whether she posted my note; but I haven’t asked her. And I have wanted to think about Ruddington’s letter--not so much its galling references to myself, as the disclosure it makes of an uncommon personality in the midst of an uncommon situation. I have wanted to think about it all day--even in church. But I haven’t yielded. Or, at most, I have yielded only a very little. _Monday morning_. Susan posted the letter. I asked her after breakfast, in a casual sort of way, what she had done with it; and she answered, almost as casually, that she and Georgette posted it on Saturday afternoon. I could see that, for some reason, Susan didn’t want to be cross-questioned. "Susan," I said, when she came into the room again, "how many people know anything about this affair of Lord Ruddington?" Susan started. "Whom have you told?" I asked again. "Did you talk about it at Traxelby?" "Oh, no, Miss!" said Susan, almost reproachfully. Then, after an awkward pause, she added: "Unless..." "Unless...?" "Well, Miss, I _did_ say to Gibson that ... that there was _somebody_. But I didn’t mention names, Miss, and he could never guess." "Have you said anything to Georgette?" Susan hung her head and studied the toe of her shoe a long time before she confessed: "Georgette asked me, Miss." "Asked you what?" "Georgette said: ’Have you got an Ammee?’ And when I told her I didn’t know what an Ammee was, she said..." Susan blushed and stopped. "Go on," I said. "An _ami_. What did Georgette say an _ami_ was?" "It is French for Mister," faltered Susan. "Georgette says it is a Mister with whom one is in love." "What did you tell her?" "Nothing, Miss." "You were very sensible, Susan," I said. "You oughtn’t to talk about it to any one." I picked up a book; but Susan still loitered. "Well?" I asked at length. "What is it?" "Please, Miss," began Susan uncomfortably, "I didn’t tell Georgette anything." "So you said before." "Yes, Miss. But Georgette ... wanted to look at the envelope. I mean the letter to his lordship, Miss." "But you didn’t let her do it?" "Oh, no, Miss." "Then what is there to worry about?"