After we have met, one or the other or both of us may decide that it is better we should not meet again. I repeat that you have read too much into my letters, and that you have formed expectations concerning me which are bound to be disappointed. I think our meetings, like this correspondence, ought not to be oftener than once a week, and that we ought to make up our minds once for all at the end of a month. When our return-day is fixed, I must tell all that is in my mind to Miss Langley, and must fall in with her wishes as to the place and time of meeting. Probably she will prefer London to Traxelby. I hope to hear that you are well.--Yours very sincerely, SUSAN BRIGGS. I can’t expect Susan to be over-pleased. To use her own old scared phrase, it gives his lordship a chance of backing out. But it makes the only arrangements that are fair and safe all round. Besides, if Susan thinks it is too prudent and cold, she can easily warm it up by getting Georgette to shove in an appropriate collection of sentimentiferous flowers. _Saturday night_. This day have coffee’d, read _Les Chouans_, bathed, lunched, read more _Chouans_, walked to the village, dined, read more _Chouans_, and am just going to bed. _Sunday night_. There was a letter for Susan this morning, with the Grandpont postmark. She regarded Gibson’s waiting on the envelope with darkling brows, and thrust the packet unopened into her pocket. So far as Gibson is concerned, I am not exactly delighted with the situation. He ought to go home. But I can’t tell him so. When the new Lady Ruddington begins her reign at the Towers, Gibson will hardly enjoy life at the Grange. I shall feel his going very much. But I’m getting used to Ruddington’s wrecking. He’s wrecked my holidays, he’s stealing Susan, and I suppose I must spend the autumn watching him smash up my whole household. In any case, I mustn’t command or persuade Gibson to leave Grandpont so long as he thinks that a smattering of motor-mending will help him in his next place. I can’t guess what the poor lad has written to Susan or how she is going to take it. But love and hate, even the loves and hates of poor and simple people, come home to me so vividly here at Sainte Véronique, that I can’t help feeling miserable over Gibson’s trouble. With the undimmed sun shining down from a cloudless heaven on the endless waters and the immeasurable uplands, such elemental verities as love and life and death seem to be at home.