“Mon cher Alfred,--Figure-toi comme je suis désolée----”
He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I could
remember, he said:
“They know how to pitch you out a letter, those Belgian lasses.”
“Practice,” said I.
“They get plenty,” he said.
There was a pause.
“Oh well,” he said. “I've never got that letter, anyhow.”
The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew my
nose and prepared to depart.
“And _she_ doesn't know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up the
hill in the direction of Tible.
“She knows nothing but what I've said--that is, if she really burnt the
letter.”
“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She's a little devil, she
is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen.
Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note.
“Why?” he said. “Why didn't you wring that b---- peacock's neck--that
b----Joey?”
“Why?” I said. “What for?”
“I hate the brute,” he said. “I let fly at him the night I got back----”