Susan turned half round and gazed over the sea. Her pretty country-girl's figure shook with hardly pent feeling. For the first time I saw Susan bitter and angry.
"I'm ashamed of him, Miss," she burst out. "I could never have believed it of him."
Not knowing what to say, I refrained from saying it. Susan's wrath waxed stronger. She turned upon me with something dangerously like active resentment.
"You ... you knew last night, Miss?" she said, almost fiercely.
"Certainly not, Susan," I replied. "Madame told me that an Englishman had asked her questions at Grandpont. But she didn't know who he was, and I never asked her to describe him."
"Then how do you know it is Gibson?" asked Susan, a very little less pugnaciously.
"Because I've just seen him."
Susan collapsed.
"Where, Miss? where, Miss? ... Oh!" gasped Susan.
"Come, come," I said, "I was quite as much annoyed as you are. I told Gibson very plainly what I thought about it. But, Susan, I must admit that there is some little excuse for him. Of course he hasn't repeated to me a single word that he ever said to you, or that you ever said to him. But it is plain that he's very fond of you. And he thinks you encouraged him. He says you haven't sent him even so little as a postcard for a fortnight."