"Don’t be too confident," I answered, warming up to the business. "You may find it hard work keeping it in. He’s bound to say a lot of things that you won’t very well understand. For instance, take that letter I wrote on Tuesday night--the loving one, as you call it--the one you posted when I was ill. It’s too late to scold you over it now, Susan; but you oughtn’t to have rushed it off. We could have written something much more suitable." "But it was lovely, Miss." "It was a great deal too lovely," I said. "He’ll say all kinds of fanciful, clever, difficult things to you about it. My advice, Susan, is this. Don’t be stiff; but be shy. Don’t go out of your depth in talking to him. So long as he speaks about things you understand, answer him freely. Be as natural and simple as you can. He’ll like you all the better. But, if he goes too deep, don’t try to follow. Just hold your tongue. If he bothers you and presses you, say you would rather talk about it some other time." "But he’ll find me out some day, Miss," said Susan doubtfully. "How do you know there’s going to be a some day? Perhaps you won’t like him. If so, you’ll part, and there’s an end of it. The great thing, Susan, is not to worry yourself into a fright. If you’re scared and nervous, you won’t look nice. And if you don’t look nice, he’ll be far more disappointed than if you’re not clever. Now run up to the hotel with this note." She departed in good spirits, treading jauntily. But when she came back she was limp, hopeless, tearful. It has called for all my strategy to elude a scene. I’m so glad Georgette is here! She and Susan get on together like a house on fire. Georgette is all ears and sympathy for every word Susan says, though Susan might as well be talking Coptic five-sixths of the time. At this minute they are laying the table under the balcony, and Susan is in full flow with her tale of hopes and fears. _Sunset_. The gold is tarnishing in the sky, and a cold, bitter wind is blowing from the sea. It has struck six. He will be just arriving at Madame’s. The Villa is sunnier and freer than the hotel by day. But it is eerie with the fall of night. I will have a fire and an extra lamp. Oh that it were Monday morning, with it all over, and Ruddington gone! How can I be sure that I have mother-wit, and force, and pride enough to scrape through? What if the sight of him fans Tuesday’s flame instead of quenching the embers? What if I do truly love him, after all? What if I break down while he is asking me for Susan? This useless, restless, shameless pen of mine is my ruin. Why do I never learn? Why did I not burn this book, days ago, to ashes? Even as I have sat writing these so few lines, the truth has darted out of its hiding-place. I can cheat myself no more.