“_Mon cher Alfred— Figure-toi comme je suis desolée_—”
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 had a shot at him—”