"No, Miss," said Susan, mollified and visibly flattered. And, after a minute’s pleasant meditation on the unsuspected range and power of her charms, she added prettily: "But Lord Ruddington does stop at home when I tell him to, Miss." "That’s true," I granted; "but Lord Ruddington has all the advantages. Poor Gibson is so frightfully handicapped. I suppose he thinks that all’s fair in love and war. I’m annoyed with him for coming here, but I admire his spirit. Gibson isn’t a muff, Susan." "Oh, no, Miss," she answered promptly and heartily. "In fact, this morning I felt quite vexed with Lord Ruddington for stepping between you. But I mustn’t say more about that. I will come to the point. I have brought a message." Susan’s agitation began afresh. "I’ve told Gibson he mustn’t come here. He is lodging at Grandpont. At this minute he’s getting something to eat in the village. But he will be on the beach at half-past two." "To-day, Miss?" she asked faintly. "Yes, to-day. You can please yourself whether you see him or not. But understand, Susan, I’ve told him it must be only this once. No meetings on the sly." "Of course not, Miss," Susan answered, with a touch of indignation, which I ignored. "If you do go to-day," I added, "you won’t mention Lord Ruddington’s name. But, Susan, if there has been anything between you and Gibson, I’m bound to say that you have no right to trifle with him. It isn’t fair to him, or to yourself, or to Lord Ruddington; or even to me. Perhaps it’s still too soon for you to decide whether you will accept Lord Ruddington; but it’s high time for you to decide whether you will drop Gibson. If you find you can’t drop Gibson, the other matter will settle itself. Be a good girl, and remember that the only way to be happy is to do right. Only, for heaven’s sake, don’t prolong the agony. I’m not going to grumble, Susan, but you must have seen that, although I came to Sainte Véronique for peace and rest, I’ve had to spend nearly three weeks worrying my head over people that want to marry you. It’s getting to be a bit tiresome." "You’ve been awfully good to me, Miss," said Susan with all her usual meekness. "I’ll try." I must stop. Here’s Georgette with a litre of cider, and a crisp roll three feet long, and a dish of _raie au beurre noir_. _A quarter past two_. Susan has just started down to the beach. _Three o’clock_. Susan didn’t say anything before she went. While she was brushing my hair--it had got all anyhow in the hammock after lunch--she hardly uttered a word. I have been thinking strange thoughts and wondering at some wonders.