Doubtless it was my duty to transmit that sheet of paper, tear-drop and all, to the Lord Ruddington so that he might frame it in gold and ivory or treasure it in a casket of bejewelled silver. But I was quite heartless this morning. I snatched the sheet away unkindly, crushed it up profanely, and said:
"You're wasting paper, Susan, and what's worse, you're wasting time. Can you do it or not?"
"No, Miss," whimpered Susan. Her shoulders began to heave, and she shed two more big tears.
"Hand me my own pen, then," I said, less harshly, "and a clean sheet of paper. You may come back in ten minutes to see if what I've written will do."
"I know it will do, Miss," said Susan fervently. "All the letters you write, Miss, are beautiful. I don't always understand them at first; but when I think them over and over after they're posted----"
"Now, run along, Susan," I cut in. "I'll leave the letter inside this case in my room. Your own envelope will do. Post it if you think it is all right."
Here is the letter:
DEAR LORD RUDDINGTON,--Your question is: Do I consent to one or more interviews between us on my return to England?
My answer is: Yes.
After we have met, one or the other or both of us may decide that it is better we should not meet again. I repeat that you have read too much into my letters, and that you have formed expectations concerning me which are bound to be disappointed.