"That’s just the trouble, Ma’am," said Gibson bitterly. "I don’t deny they may have changed her mind. If they’ve dangled a lot o’ money before her eyes, and fine clothes and joolry, and motor-cars and going to Egypt, and all that, I don’t deny they may have managed to change her mind. They may have been too strong for a poor girl. Oh, yes, Ma’am, they may have changed Susan’s mind! But ... but they can’t never change her heart, Ma’am. Her heart’ll go on beating true all the same, all the time; and when she’s got tired of the fine things..." He clenched his fist and finished off the sentence with a gesture between rage and despair. I was forced to turn away from the white heat of his rough eloquence and superb sincerity. "What is it you want, Gibson?" I asked, as soon as I was able. "I want to know first, Ma’am, has Susan got herself engaged?" "No, she has not." "Is she going to be, Ma’am?" "I don’t know. It isn’t my affair. I think she hasn’t made up her mind one way or the other." I met Gibson’s eyes. But, this time, it was he who looked away. Apologetically, clumsily, he asked: "If I may make so bold, Ma’am ... is the party at Sinn Verrynick?" "The party?" "I mean, Ma’am, the rich party that’s took a fancy to Susan?" "No, he is not. I have never so much as seen him. Neither has Susan. But what did I promise? Didn’t I give you my word that, if he came here, I would let you know? That’s why I’m so vexed, Gibson, at your coming like this." He accepted the rebuke without a word. "What are you going to do now?" I asked. "I suppose, Ma’am," he said slowly and painfully, "I’d better go back to Granpong." I asked him a few questions. It turns out that he came over on Saturday, _viâ_ Southampton and "Lee Harver." He held a letter from a chauffeur he had met in Derlingham to a Havre motor-accessories firm. The Havre people, hearing he wanted to be near Sainte Véronique, gave him a letter to a small cycle and motor jobber in Grandpont who speaks a little English. He boards and lodges Gibson, and teaches him the driving and mending of cars, in return for English conversation, Gibson’s labour, and thirty francs a week. "Of course, if you object to me staying on at Granpong, Ma’am..." said Gibson. "If I’d known beforehand I should have objected very much, Gibson," I said. "But you’ve been so lucky in your arrangements, I hardly like to disturb them. Give me your Grandpont address." Gibson gave me a printed card. He is staying "À la Descente des Automobilistes." The "Descente" announces, on a card adorned with crossed billiard-cues over a foaming bock, that it speaks Englisch, and that it is equal to billiards, coffee, repairs, and beefsteacks _à toute heure_. "Are you comfortable, Gibson?" I asked. "Very," he answered. "I never could abide cider, and the beer is shocking, Ma’am. But I’m quite comfortable." "I’m glad, Gibson," I said. "I won’t lose the address. Good-morning."