Susan scraped the floor with the point of her shoe, and shifted about. By and by she blurted: "Georgette wanted to know if the letter was to my Ammee or ... or to yours, Miss." I shut the book. Susan hurried on. "So, of course, I said he was mine, Miss." Ruddington is right. Susan is a wonder, a gem, and five times out of six a born lady. After I had praised her discreetly and had deplored the impertinent pryings of Georgette, I took up the book again and told Susan she might go away. She went, but within five minutes she was back. "I thought I’d best tell you, Miss," she said when I looked up. "Yes?" "I didn’t show Georgette the address, Miss. But ... she noticed the envelope wasn’t gummed down." "Yes, yes. Get on." "I oughtn’t to have done it, Miss. But Georgette went into the garden and plucked a flower, and lifted up the flap of the envelope, and laughed, and tucked the flower inside." "It’s a great pity, Susan," I said, "that you didn’t take it out again. If you’d make up your mind to marry Lord Ruddington it wouldn’t matter. But can’t you see how foolish it will look? It simply contradicts the letter asking for a week’s grace." "Yes, Miss," said Susan, going redder than ever. But she showed no sign of departing. "Is that all, Susan?" I asked, with a sudden fear that there was worse to follow. "No, Miss," she answered faintly. "After we’d posted the letter, Georgette laughed again and said that the flower had a meaning." "A meaning?" "Yes, Miss. The Language of Flowers, Miss. Georgette said the flower meant ’Vang.’" "Vang?" "Yes, Miss. That’s the French Language of Flowers, Miss. Georgette says that, in English, it means ’Come’!" Before I could speak, she burst out crying. "Please, Miss," she wept, "I didn’t see any harm on Saturday. But last night, when I went to bed, and thought about it ... oh, Miss Gertrude, I’m _so_ miserable!" And she cried harder than ever. In the end I sent her away consoled to the extent of my assurance that I didn’t blame her in the least, and that the sole offender was Georgette. Also, I promised her that I wouldn’t get Georgette into trouble. At first I felt determined to give Georgette some very plain speaking in private. Yet how can I? How was Georgette to know that Susan hadn’t been writing a common country love-letter to some common country sweetheart? What divination could teach Georgette that we had been writing a superfine letter to a milord? Georgette simply indulged her rural playfulness. And if the envelope was open for Georgette to put the flower in, it was also open for Susan to take it out. That’s the devil (I can’t help saying it!) of this endless affair. Everybody keeps on giving me shocks and jumps, and yet nobody is ever to blame.