She has gone to her own room. I do hope she won't write it out in that frightful, blotty school-girl hand. I ought to have told her to write more quickly and freely, and less as if she's doing it with a paint-brush. Still, I'm deeply thankful we're getting on so nicely.
To-morrow, the glorious sea, and the cider, and dear old Sainte Véronique!
9.30 p.m.
More worry and tangle. I feel all bruised and weak, as if I'd been battered about in the surf on a stony beach.
While I was walking in the garden after dinner, Gibson came across from the stables and began hanging about. I had a presentiment as to what he wanted, and I nearly bolted back into the house. Susan had been quite enough for one day. But, although it was dusk, I could see his trouble sitting, so to speak, on Gibson's shoulders. There was nothing for it but to face it out.
"Good-evening, Gibson," I said. "Do you want to speak to me?"
"I do, Ma'am," Gibson answered. His manner was perfectly respectful, but his tone was almost imperative.
"What is the matter?"
"You told me, Ma'am, I could have a holiday, beginning Monday. Hughes is well able now to look after the horses. If I couldn't trust him, I wouldn't go."
"But, Gibson, we talked over all this on Tuesday, and it was settled you should go. Why do you want me to discuss it again?"