It was a busy life—a wonderful life! Hard work—hard play—fun—travel. . . . Ah, those years!
But I am leaping ahead——!
Yet I have but one incident left to record of those earliest days with Susan—an incident which had important, though delayed, results—affecting in various ways, for long unforeseen, Susan's career, and the destiny of several other persons, myself among them.
Sonia, Susan's little Russian maid, was at the bottom of it all; and the first hint of the rather sordid affair came to me, all unprepared, from the lips of Miss Goucher. She sought me out in my private study, whither I had retired after dinner to write a letter or two—a most unusual proceeding on her part, and on mine—and she asked at once in her brief, hard, respectful manner for ten minutes of my time. I rose and placed a chair for her, uncomfortably certain that this could be no trivial errand; she seated herself, angularly erect, holding her feelings well in hand.
"Mr. Hunt," she began, "have I your permission to discharge Sonia?"
My face showed my surprise.
"But Susan likes her, doesn't she, Miss Goucher? And she seems efficient?"
"Yes. A little careless perhaps; but then, she's young. It isn't her service I object to."
"What is the trouble?"
"It is a question of character, Mr. Hunt. I have reason to think her lacking in—self-respect."