"It’s gone, Miss," answered Susan, with the prompt heartiness of one who breaks good news and administers consolation. "So you don’t need to worry your head about it any more." "Gone?" I echoed, in a voice as thin as a ghost’s. "Yes, Miss. Madame was going to Grandpont in the omnibus. She asked me if we had any letters for the early post. And oh, Miss Gertrude, it was perfectly lovely! I can’t never thank you enough. I couldn’t understand it all through; but it was so lovely, it made me cry." I lay still with closed eyes. When Susan held the coffee to my lips, I drank. When she drew away the extra pillows and settled the bedclothes cosily round me, I did not resist. Indeed, I did not say another word. Susan thinks I am asleep. I ought to be up and doing. But doing what? I ought to be hot, angry, ashamed, full of resolves and plans. But I am lying here, despite the shocks and bruises, subdued, at rest, strangely imperturbable. Can it be that I am happy because, while I have played fair with Susan, I have been suffered once, just once, to speak in his ear and to send him a rose-leaf with a kiss? I have thought it all out. Did Susan sign the letter? Even if it has gone without her name, it doesn’t matter. He cannot guess that it is mine. At first I shuddered at recollecting the bits about "poor Susan." But, again, it doesn’t matter. He will take it that Susan has written "poor Susan" instead of "I," just as he himself writes "prudent Suzanne" instead of you. He will read it to-morrow morning. It will puzzle him. But the task of interpreting it will delight his fanciful, super-subtle mind. I can predict his reading of the riddle. He will take it that Susan, in her wonderful, beautiful soul, is comparing her angelic love with his very human infatuation. He will picture her more exquisite and spiritual and poetical than ever. But it is my kiss that he will cull from the curling lip of that pale rose. *BOOK IV* *LA VILLA DE LA MER* *BOOK IV* _Thursday night_. I am not Number 3 at Dupoirier’s hotel any more. I am a householder; and mistress, until Sunday morning, of the Villa de la Mer. I am writing in my new bedroom. The French windows open on a broad wooden balcony facing the sea. The furniture is brand new--as new as the villa garden, with its glaring paths of chalk-chippings bordering an oblong of wiry grass and lean, shivery shrubs. If Ruddington rode into Derlingham, he would get the letter this morning, about a quarter to ten. At half-past two a telegram arrived at the Hôtel du Dauphin, addressed to Susan. Happily, he had the tact to hand it in at Miller’s Bridge where Susan isn’t known. Susan brought the unopened message to me with a scared face. I took it, and this is what I read aloud:-- TO MISS BRIGGS, HÔTEL DU DAUPHIN, SAINTE VÉRONIQUE, FRANCE.