“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 desolée_—” 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?” “Why?” I said. “What for?” “I hate the brute,” he said. “I had a shot at him—” I laughed. He stood and mused. “Poor little Élise,” he murmured. “Was she small—_petite_?” I asked. He jerked up his head. “No,” he said. “Rather tall.” “Taller than your wife, I suppose.” Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again. “God, it’s a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him, his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man. “But I’ll do that blasted Joey in—” he mused. I ran down the hill, shouting with laughter. YOU TOUCHED ME The Pottery House was a square, ugly, brick house girt in by the wall that enclosed the whole grounds of the pottery itself. To be sure, a privet hedge partly masked the house and its ground from the pottery-yard and works: but only partly. Through the hedge could be seen the desolate yard, and the many-windowed, factory-like pottery, over the hedge could be seen the chimneys and the outhouses. But inside the hedge, a pleasant garden and lawn sloped down to a willow pool, which had once supplied the works. The Pottery itself was now closed, the great doors of the yard permanently shut. No more the great crates with yellow straw showing through, stood in stacks by the packing shed. No more the drays drawn by great horses rolled down the hill with a high load. No more the pottery-lasses in their clay-coloured overalls, their faces and hair splashed with grey fine mud, shrieked and larked with the men. All that was over. “We like it much better—oh, much better—quieter,” said Matilda Rockley.