Third--how do I know that Master Ruddington isn’t lying peacefully at this very moment in his little white cot at Ruddington Towers, dreaming of his Susan as good as gold? How do I know that the Grandpont person isn’t somebody else? It struck me in the night that it is probably Mr. John Lamb. At the Customs, he looked at the Sainte Véronique labels on my boxes as well as at the Cheval d’Or labels on our bags. I know he tumbled down the steps of the Astor still believing that he had conquered Susan’s maiden heart, and that if he could only have seen her all would have been well. Perhaps he has got together a fresh supply of francs and is proposing to wait on us with some preposterous apologies and explanations. It may be that he wants me to promise that next time I am in Amelia Road, Shepherd’s Bush, I won’t give him away to Phipps Brothers--and, above all, that I won’t give him away to Ma. This morning I shall ask Madame Dupoirier to describe him. If it be indeed Mr. John Lamb, he will find me ready with the mint sauce. _Ten a.m._ It’s a good thing that I have decisively renounced all hope of peace and quietness. The postman has brought Susan no flowers from Grandpont, but he has brought me just the sort of letter from Alice that I don’t want. Ruddington, Ruddington, Ruddington--that’s Alice’s letter from beginning to end. Alice has "found out all about him." He’s richer than Alice thought. And prettier. And nicer. And I am the wickedest, foolishest, proudest young woman in the world for clinging on at Sainte Véronique. It seems that Ruddington and I "were made for each other." He has just my tastes! Alice even adds, with splendid candour, that he "isn’t the least little bit like Hugh." I had hardly smoothed my poor fur after Alice’s ruffling when Susan chose to begin stroking me backwards again. She said: "I’m thinking, Miss, about this letter that came on Friday night." "Yes?" I said. "Please, Miss, you never told me what you thought of it." "What did you think yourself, Susan?" Susan fidgeted about. At last she answered: "I can’t feel that it’s right, Miss." "What isn’t right?" "Him speaking that way, Miss, to a girl ... like me. It doesn’t seem right." "I don’t understand, Susan." She fidgeted again. Then she said: "I’m afraid you’d be vexed, Miss. It isn’t my place to say it." "To say what?" "Well, Miss," Susan explained in instalments, "it doesn’t seem right, it doesn’t seem natural for him to be courting ... _me_. It’s what my Aunt Martha used to say, Miss. She used to say, ’More unhappiness comes to them as marries above ’em than to them as marries below ’em.’" "You mean, Susan," I suggested, "that you’re uneasy at the thought of such a great change in your position? So you ought to be. That’s why I’ve always wanted you to look well before you leap. There’s a great deal in what your Aunt says."