d for _her_!" he exclaimed cryptically.

And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big
move in his contest with his wife.

"What about the other woman?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Elise."

"Oh"--he shifted uneasily--"she was all right------"

"You'll be getting back to her," I said.

He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth.

"Not me," he said. "Back your life it's a plant."

"You don't think the _cher petit bebe_ is a little Alfred?"

"It might be," he said.

"Only might?"

"Yes--an' there's lots of mites in a pound of cheese." He laughed
boisterously but uneasily.

"What did she say, exactly?" he asked.

I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter:

"Mon cher Alfred,--Figure-toi comme je suis desolee----"

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----"

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 pocket, in front of him,
his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.

"But I'll do that blasted Joey in----" he mused, I ran down the hill,
shouting also with laughter.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wintry Peacock, by D.