I found Susan sitting under an apple-tree with Georgette. Georgette was jabbering over a fearful and wonderful plum-coloured blouse which the two were slashing and altering. It may have been my fancy, but Georgette looked a bit sheepish as she went away. "Mees Breegs" advanced to meet me.
"Susan," I said, "some one whom you know is in the neighbourhood."
"At Grandpont," I went on. "Madame Dupoirier told me about it last night. She was at Grandpont station in the 'bus yesterday. He read the name of the hotel, and asked Madame if you were here."
As usual, Susan's colour rushed back, with reinforcements. She began to tremble.
"It's that flower, Miss!" she gasped, "Georgette's flower! Oh, Miss Gertrude, I can't face him yet! I can't, I can't!"
"You don't need to, Susan," I said. "It isn't Lord Ruddington."
Susan moaned a little moan of thankfulness. But her face clouded again as I added:
She searched my eyes. Then she asked, in an agonized whisper:
Susan turned half round and gazed over the sea. Her pretty country-girl's figure shook with hardly pent feeling. For the first time I saw Susan bitter and angry.
"I'm ashamed of him, Miss," she burst out. "I could never have believed it of him."
Not knowing what to say, I refrained from saying it. Susan's wrath waxed stronger. She turned upon me with something dangerously like active resentment.
"You ... you knew last night, Miss?" she said, almost fiercely.
"Certainly not, Susan," I replied. "Madame told me that an Englishman had asked her questions at Grandpont. But she didn't know who he was, and I never asked her to describe him."
"Then how do you know it is Gibson?" asked Susan, a very little less pugnaciously.
"Where, Miss? where, Miss? ... Oh!" gasped Susan.
"Come, come," I said, "I was quite as much annoyed as you are. I told Gibson very plainly what I thought about it. But, Susan, I must admit that there is some little excuse for him. Of course he hasn't repeated to me a single word that he ever said to you, or that you ever said to him. But it is plain that he's very fond of you. And he thinks you encouraged him. He says you haven't sent him even so little as a postcard for a fortnight."
Susan's Amazonian ire had died down to a village beauty's pout.