* *

The Duchesse was so pleased to see me--she kissed me on both cheeks--.

"Nicholas! thou art better!" she said--"As I told you--the war is going
to end well--!"

"And how is the book?" she asked presently--"It should be finished--I am
told that your work is intermittent--."

My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link--the Duchesse of course
must have seen him--but I myself have seen very little of Maurice
lately--how did he know my work was intermittent--?

"Maurice told you?" I said.

"Maurice?"--her once lovely eyes opened wide--she has a habit of
screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.--"Do you
suppose I have been on a _partie de plaisir_, my son--that I should have
encountered Maurice--!"

I dared not ask who was her informant--.

"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas.
It is a pretty poor performance anyway--and is not likely to find a
publisher."

"You are content with your Secretary?"

This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning
in it of the kind Madame de Clerte would have instilled into the tone.

"Yes--she is wonderfully diligent--it is impossible to dislodge her for
a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."

The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly--.

"Why should she think that, Nicholas--you can't after all fight."

"No----but--."

"Get well, my boy--and these silly introspective fancies will leave
you--Self analysis all the time for those who sit still--they imagine
that they matter to the _Bon Dieu_ as much as a _Corps d'Armee_--!"

"You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said Miss Sharp--my
typist--probably thinks me a poor creature--she gets at my thoughts when
I dictate."

"You must master your thoughts----"

And then with a total change of subject she remarked.

"Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"

I felt a hot flush rise to my face--What an idiotic thing to do--more
silly than a girl--Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my
nerves.

"In love!"--I laughed a little angrily--"With whom could I possibly be
in love, _chere amie_?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or
Alice could cause such an emotion!"

"Oh! for them perhaps no--they are for the senses of men--they are the
exotic flowers of this forcing time--they have their uses--although I
myself abhor them as types--but--is there no one else?"

"Solonge de Cler