"We must," I answered, stamping my foot on the grass. For Susan was speaking.
"No, Tom, no," she moaned; "not the Missis! It isn't a tiff with the Missis. Oh, it breaks my heart to think of it! To-night, just before I ran away, she was sitting looking at the fire. She looked that sad and lonely, I burst out crying; and if I hadn't run straight out of the house, I wouldn't have come at all. No, no, no! Not the Missis."
"What the dooce is it, then?" asked Gibson.
"It's ... it's him!" blurted Susan, desperately.
"Him? Not ... not the toff?"
"Yes," groaned Susan, "the toff! He's coming. He wants to meet me, here."
"Here? To-night?"
"No. To-morrow. Eleven o'clock. Oh, Tom, I can't bear it! Take me away!"
Gibson emitted a long, low whistle. He took off his cap, crushed it up, and put it on again. Then he ducked for Susan's bag and dropped it down a few yards away, as if he wanted room. Last of all, he bent his head till he could look straight into Susan's eyes.
"Susie," he said slowly, "you don't say you're going to give him up?"