He bent his head.
"You mean," I said, "you've fallen in love with Susan." And then, although my spirit was quailing and failing at the desperate sight of the poor lad's agony, I actually forced myself to try and laugh him out of it, as if it had been no more than a mild attack of calf-love.
"Really, Gibson," I said, as banteringly and gaily as I could, "I'm surprised at you. You're behaving as if Susan's going to Siberia for life instead of to France for a month. No doubt it's very painful and upsetting to be head over ears in love, though I confess I don't know much about it. But surely, Gibson, you can manage to exist without seeing Susan for four little weeks? Be more of a man."
"It's because I'm a man, Ma'am," he rejoined firmly, "that my right place is at Sinn Veeronik. You talk of four little weeks, Ma'am. When them four little weeks are over, shall I see the same Susan as went away?"
His earnestness was so terrible that I could not maintain my hollow banter, and I was silent.
"I put it plain, Ma'am. When them four little weeks are over, shall I ever see Susan any more?"
I couldn't answer. Worse still, I guessed that his next move would be to ask me how much I knew. So I clung fast to the one hope that buoys me up in all this outrageous business--the hope that Time and Separation will restore Lord Ruddington to such senses as he may possess, and that Susan, like a ruffled dove, will home back to Gibson's faithful heart after all.
"You can't answer, Ma'am," he said almost fiercely.
"Of course I can't, you foolish fellow," I said, recovering my wits and making a show of irritation. "I can't answer for Susan any more than I can for you. How do I know that, when we come back in four weeks' time, poor Susan won't find you consoling yourself with somebody else?"
He brushed my trifling aside.