"Susan is a free woman, Gibson," I said. "Ever since we left Traxelby she hasn't mentioned your name. I know nothing about it. But how do you know that Susan ever cared for you? Perhaps she only led you on, as girls do. And, supposing she did care for you, how do you know she hasn't changed her mind?"
"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?"