"Why not?"
Tears came into Susan's eyes.
"I should be as dumb as a fish, Miss. I should just sit and sit and never be able to say a word--and then he'd think I was stupid and he'd go away."
"So I think myself," I said. "That's why this letter is sensible. After he's written to you two or three times, you'll feel less strange and more able to meet him."
"Yes, Miss. But it's such a long way and such a long time. He might change his mind."
"Susan," I began, with all the grown-up, worldly-wise solemnity I could muster, "listen to me. If he's going to change his mind as easy as that, won't you be better without him?"
Susan looked dubious. "I don't think I would go as far as that, Miss," she said candidly.
Evidently it was necessary to rub the truth well in.
"Susan," I said, "I admit that lords don't marry lady's-maids every day. This case is unusual. But it isn't the first. Before we were born, dukes have married dairy-maids and earls have married their cooks. A few of them have been happy all their lives long. Most of them have been miserable before the end of the honeymoon."
Susan began to pout. I piled it on thicker.