"Tell me, Susan. Have you made up your mind? If you've settled it that you mean to marry Lord Ruddington, we shall know where we are."
The pout vanished, and she hung her head. At last she answered:
"Yes, Miss. I mean, I'm not sure yet, Miss. But I'm sure that I shall be sure before long."
"Sure that you'll marry him?"
"Yes, Miss. I mean ... I think I shall."
I could get no more out of her, and in the end I turned surlier and snappier than I care to remember. Susan went to bed looking miserable.
This morning my conscience woke up as early as I did. Earlier: for it was wide awake while I was still half asleep, and I groped out into consciousness with a sense of recent meanness and unkindness to Susan. The more I woke, the clearlier I saw how natural it was of Susan, who knows no French and can speak with nobody here save me, to want to talk frocks.
When she came in at seven o'clock to open the curtains, I said in my friendliest tone:
"Well, Susan, I suppose you've decided to be married in white, with orange-blossoms and a veil?"
To my consternation she remained at the window, and did not turn round. Then she plunged for the door into her own room, and as she seized the handle, I heard a sob.