uitous aversion: to-morrow would see him on the road again, his
back forever turned to the Chateau de Montalais....

Or, if not to-morrow, then as soon as the storm abated.

It was raging now as if it would never weaken and had the will to raze
the chateau though it were the task of a thousand years. From time to
time the shock of some great blast of air would seem to rock upon its
foundations even that ancient pile, those heavy walls of hewn stone
builded in times of honest workmanship by forgotten Sieurs de Montalais
who had meant their home to outlast the ages.

Rain in sheets sluiced the windows without rest. Round turrets and
gables the wind raved and moaned like a famished wild thing denied its
kill. Occasionally a venturesome gust with the spirit of a minor demon
would find its way down the chimney to the drawing-room fire and send
sparks in volleys against the screen, with thin puffs of wood smoke
that lingered in the air like acrid ghosts.

At such times the cure, sitting at piquet with Madame de Sevenie, after
dinner, would cough distressingly and, reminded that he had a bed to
reach somehow through all this welter, anathematise the elements, help
himself to a pinch of snuff, and proceed with his play.

Duchemin sat at a little distance, talking with Madame de Montalais
over their cigarettes. To smoking, curiously enough, Madame de Sevenie
offered no objection. Women had not smoked in her day, and she for her
part would never. But Eve might: it was "done"; even in those circles
of hidebound conservatism, the society of the Faubourg St. Germain,
ladies of this day smoked unrebuked.

Louise had excused herself--to sit, Duchemin had no doubt, by the
bedside of d'Aubrac, under the duenna-like eye of an old nurse of the
family.

Being duly encouraged, Duchemin talked about himself, of his wanderings
and adventures, all with discretion, with the neatest expurgations, and
with an object, leading cunningly round to the subject of New York.

At mention of it he saw a new light kindle in Eve's eyes. Her breath
came more quickly, gentle emotion agitated her bosom.

Monsieur knew New York?

But well: he had been there as a boy, again as a young man; and then
later, in the year when America entered the Great War; not since ...

"It is my home," said Eve de Montalais softly, looking away.

(One noted that she said "is"--not "was.")

So Duchemin had understood. Madame had not visited her home recently?

Not i