re my despatches, my maps, my papers, which were given into
your care?'"

He finished the thought with three gestures, which seemed to illustrate
the placing of a man against a wall and shooting him. His meaning could
not be mistaken.

"And that is what the patron means when he says that Monsieur Charles
Darragon will not return to Dantzig. I knew that he meant that last
night, when he was so angry--on the mat."

"And why did you not tell me?"

Barlasch looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, before replying slowly
and impressively.

"Because, if I had told you, you might have decided to quit Dantzig with
Mademoiselle Mathilde, and go hunting your husband in a country overrun
by desperate fugitives and untamed Cossacks. And I did not want that. I
want you here--in Dantzig; in the Frauengasse; in this kitchen; under my
hand--so that I can take care of you till the war is over. I--who speak
to you--Papa Barlasch, at your service. And there is not another man in
the world who will do it so well. No; not one."

And his eyes flashed as he threw the knives into a drawer.

"But why should you do all this for me?" asked Desiree. "You could have
gone home to France--quite easily--and have left us to our fate here in
Dantzig. Why did you not go home?"

Barlasch looked at her with surprise, not unmixed with a sudden dumb
disappointment. He was preparing to go out according to his wont
immediately after breakfast; for Lisa had unconsciously hit the mark
when she compared him to a cat. He had the regular and self-contained
habits of that unobtrusive friend. He buttoned his rough coat slowly,
and looked round the kitchen with eyes dimly wistful. He was very old
and ragged and homeless.

"Is it not enough," he said, "that we are friends?"

He went towards the door, but came back and warned her by the familiar
upheld finger not to let her attention wander from his words.

"You will be glad yet that I have stayed. It is because I speak a little
plainly of your husband that you wish me gone. Bah! What does it matter?
All men are alike. We are only men--not angels. And you can go on
loving him all the same. You are not particular, you women. You can love
anything--even a man like that."

And he went out muttering anathemas on the hearts of all women.

"It seems," he said, "that a woman can love anything."

Which is true; and a very good thing for some of us. For without that
Heaven-sent capacity the world could not go on