"There's only my aunt, Miss," said Susan dutifully, "and she doesn't care. I've wrote----"
"Written. Not wrote. Say written."
"Yes, Miss. I've written to her twice since Christmas, not to speak of sending a coloured post-card from Malvern, and she hasn't answered never so much as a word."
This pricked me. I had heard it before; and, knowing as I did that Susan had neither father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, I ought to have put two and two together, and deduced the fact that Susan was alone in the world. But I had not been interested or unselfish enough to work it out.
"Of course, of course," I said. "I'd forgotten. But, Susan, why have you not spoken about it to me? When I found you had no parents, didn't I tell you that if you were in any doubt or trouble you were always to come to me?"
"Yes, Miss," answered Susan as dutifully as before. And she went on brushing my hair. I got up impatiently, and went and sat in my big chair by the window.
"No," I said. "Never mind my hair for a minute. Susan, I'm very much disappointed and put out. You are not treating either me or yourself fairly. With things as they are, I feel responsible for you. All this is very serious. You are young, and you have no experience."
Susan standing three feet away with lowered head, heard me out deferentially, although she knows quite well that I am six months her junior, and that it is hardly a year since I began to look after my own affairs. She simply said:
"Yes, Miss."
"Susan, look at me. Don't hang your head. Is this man respectable?"