"He had to go to Grandpont whether you sent him there or not," I said. "But didn't you give him an answer?"
Susan had replied to my questions rapidly and defiantly; but, without any warning, she sat down plump on the top stair with the candlestick in her lap, and sobbed the plentifullest and heartiest sobs of all her many sobbings since Ruddington wrote his first letter. Overwrought as I was, I wonder that the unexpectedness and oddity of it did not drive me into hysterical laughter. I controlled myself only by speaking to Susan roughly.
"Get up, you silly creature!" I said. "Georgette will hear you, and Madame! What's the matter?"
"Oh, Miss Gertrude," she sobbed, "I know I oughtn't to have said the things to Gibson that I did say. I oughtn't, I know, I know!"
"Then what did you say them for?"
"It was all his fault, Miss, not mine. I oughtn't to have said the things I did. But why did he say such bitter, cruel, awful things to me?"
"I've no idea, Susan," I said, taking the candlestick from her lap and leaving her to follow.
She did not appear till she had dried her eyes and regained some composure. When she came into my room, her lips were set, and she did not speak.
"Susan," I explained, "I was sorry to cut you short. But we mustn't have scenes on the stairs. Besides, to-night I'm tired out. Gibson upset me this morning. But I'm sorry if you've quarrelled."
Susan broke down again.