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--'
I laughed. He stood and mused.
'Poor little Elise,' he murmured.
'Was she small--_petite_?' I asked. He jerked up his head.
'No,' he said. 'Rather tall.'
'Taller than your wife, I suppose.'
Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud
burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again.
'God, it's a knockout!' he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at
ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him,
his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.
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