In the past I have learned almost to loathe lovers. When Hugh came to see Alice, I used to wonder how she could endure him. I suppose he enjoyed his courtship, just as a budding barrister enjoys his obligatory course of dinners; but he used to turn up more like a man who had come to tune the piano than like a man in love. And I don’t think I detest any one in this world more than poor Maude Slaney’s Bob. Heaven only knows how many millions of times he has mispronounced the word "fiancée" these last two years; and the way they go on in public is simply horrid. I’d almost rather have the boorishly amorous couples who slouch on Sunday nights along Church Lane, gaping up at the Grange. But, this month, I’ve begun to see lovers in a less garish light. The fisherman reminded me of Gibson. I shall be the better all my life long for having stood in the glow of Gibson’s splendid manliness when he thought Susan was in danger. Ruddington, poor man, is quite an endurable lover, too. As for Susan, although she’s so simple, I haven’t definitely made her out. But, allowing amply for her shyness and for her deference to my guidance, it’s rather fine to see how she hangs back from Ruddington’s money and rank until she feels sure she can care for him. If the bulk of human love is anything like these samples, I don’t wonder that the world goes right round in a night and a day. _Tuesday, bedtime_. Another earthquake. This afternoon, Madame Dupoirier went to Grandpont station in the hotel omnibus. She has just come back. Madame says that when the ’bus drew up at the station "a compatriot" of mine stepped alongside and attentively perused the words "Hôtel du Dauphin, Sainte Véronique-sur-mer," painted on the ’bus sides. Apparently he mistook Madame for a guest who was going away; and he asked her (very politely, Madame says) if she knew whether "Mees Langley and Mees Breeggs" were still at the hotel. Madame said "Yes;" and she is quite pleasantly fluttered at the thought of an extra guest fairly on his way hither. I was too much stunned to do more than thank her for telling me. I didn’t even ask her what the man was like, and whether he spoke to her in French or in English. But I’ve no doubt it is Ruddington. I call it abominable. If Susan were travelling in France with her parents, or even with some married woman for a mistress, it would be different. But this is outrageous. I ought to have known that he would hunt up the meaning of Georgette’s flower. A man who can read such super-exquisite meanings into the half-dozen notes I have scribbled for Susan, isn’t the sort to leave any stone unturned. I can’t help despising him. When a full-grown, educated man has such sickly rubbish as the Language of Flowers at his finger ends, a lady’s-maid is as much as he deserves.