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

       “You don't think the cher petit bébé 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 désolée——”      

       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?”      

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