I jumped up and followed her to the threshold.
"Come, come, Susan!" I said. "You mustn't have such a thin skin. I never meant to hurt your feelings."
"You haven't, Miss," sobbed Susan, standing near me, but not showing her face. "It isn't you, Miss. But I can't bear it!"
"You can't bear what?"
"All of it, Miss. None of it. I woke up and thought about it in the night. It's dreadful!"
I couldn't guess what Susan couldn't bear, or what it was that was dreadful, and it didn't seem wise to press her. So I said nothing.
"You'll take cold, Miss," she cried, when she cast her first glance at me. And she bundled me back into bed.
I told her that she needn't have her breakfast with Georgette, and that she ought to drink chocolate instead of coffee.
"You'd better have a quiet day," I added. "This matter is getting on your brain. Give it a rest. That was one reason why I wanted you to wait a whole month. There's no need to brood over it day and night. The month has still three weeks to run."
She dried her eyes and was ever so grateful. But I am puzzled. Last night she seemed (as she has seemed all along) to take it as a matter of course that she will marry Ruddington. Her attitude has been that of a pretty, honest, modest, prosaic girl with an eye on the main chance. To find her suddenly all sensibility is a surprise.