"Is it Gibson?"
"Oh, no, Miss, not Gibson." Her response was prompt, decisive, almost reproachful.
"I'm rather sorry," I said. "Gibson's a thoroughly decent, steady young fellow, and he will get on. I hope it's nobody worse than Gibson."
"Oh, no, Miss," said Susan swiftly and softly, "Not worse than Gibson."
As she did not offer the swain's name, or an account of his person, or any further information whatsoever, I sat dumb and began to feel a bit sulky. Apart from my personal loss of the best maid a woman ever had, I was aggrieved on Susan's own account. No doubt some small farmer's son had turned her silly little head and won her unguarded little heart. And after the rude delights of a rural courtship, my neat-handed, dainty pink-and-white Susan would have to settle down for forty years to drudge among kine and swine and turnips, and, most likely, a pack of lusty and highly dislikable children. The prospect so revolted me that I decided to do my whole duty.
"Susan."
"Yes, Miss?"
"Have you told your people--your relations--about all this?"
"No, Miss."
"Why not?"