"Then what is there to worry about?"
Susan scraped the floor with the point of her shoe, and shifted about. By and by she blurted:
"Georgette wanted to know if the letter was to my Ammee or ... or to yours, Miss."
I shut the book. Susan hurried on.
"So, of course, I said he was mine, Miss."
Ruddington is right. Susan is a wonder, a gem, and five times out of six a born lady. After I had praised her discreetly and had deplored the impertinent pryings of Georgette, I took up the book again and told Susan she might go away.
She went, but within five minutes she was back.
"I thought I'd best tell you, Miss," she said when I looked up.
"Yes?"
"I didn't show Georgette the address, Miss. But ... she noticed the envelope wasn't gummed down."