ve a sense of crouching or hovering, for warmth
or in menace. As Valmond entered the garden, Madame Chalice was leaning
over the lower half of the entrance door, which opened latitudinally,
and was hung on large iron hinges of quaint design, made by some
seventeenth-century forgeron. Behind her deepened hospitably the
spacious hall, studded and heavy beamed, with its unpainted pine ceiling
toned to a good brown by smoke and time. Caribou and moose antlers hung
along the wall, with arquebuses, powder-horns, big shot-bags, swords,
and even pieces of armour, such as Cartier brought with him from St.
Malo.

Madame Chalice looked out of this ancient avenue, a contrast, yet a
harmony; for, though her dress was modern, her person had a rare touch
of the archaic, and fitted into the picture like a piece of beautiful
porcelain, coloured long before the art of making fadeless colours was
lost.

There was an amused, meditative smiling at her lips, a kind of wonder,
the tender flush of a new experience. She turned, and, stepping softly
into the salon, seated herself near the immense chimney, in a heavily
carved chair, her feet lost in rich furs on the polished floor. A quaint
table at her hand was dotted with rare old books and miniatures, and
behind her ticked an ancient clock in a tall mahogany case.

Valmond came forward, hat in hand, and raised to his lips the fingers
she gave him. He did it with the vagueness of one in a dream, she
thought, and she neither understood nor relished his uncomplimentary
abstraction; so she straightway determined to give him some troublesome
moments.

"I have waited to drink my coffee with you," she said, motioning him to
a seat; "and you may smoke a cigarette, if you wish."

Her eyes wandered over his costume with critical satisfaction.

He waved his hand slightly, declining the permission, and looked at her
with an intent seriousness, which took no account of the immediate charm
of her presence.

"I'd like to ask you a question," he said, without preamble. She
was amused, interested. Here was an unusual man, who ignored the
conventional preliminary nothings, beating down the grass before the
play, as it were.

"I was never good at catechism," she answered. "But I will be as
hospitable as I can."

"I've felt," he said, "that you can--can see through things; that you
can balance them, that you get at all sides, and--"

She had been reading Napoleon's letters this very afternoon.

"Fu