But he was not often at home in those days. He sought his pleasure elsewhere. The guest-house had been empty for months. Kate and Benoix found his frequent absences rather a relief. They were freer to discuss the things that did not interest him, to read aloud to each other, to play games with the exacting Apple-Blossom, an executive from her cradle. It was at last the sort of domestic life of which every girl dreams in her secret heart; and Kate grew lovelier than her loveliest. Meanwhile the countryside watched, and whispered, and waited. The countryside was wise in the ways of Nature, if these two were not. Once Kildare asked (she missed the wistfulness of his voice), "Ain't it time you were riding again, Kit, and playing cards with the boys? They like to have you 'round. They're getting jealous of that kid of yours." Kate smiled at him, absently. She was sitting on the floor, building a house of blocks under instruction from young Jemima. The amusements of men seemed to her futile things, just then, and childish. "Benoix has given us the go-by, too. Won't touch a card or drink a drop nowadays. I don't know what's come over him. Good gad--" Kildare gave himself an impatient shake,--"sometimes I think the little Frenchman's a female in disguise!" Kate smiled again. She knew very well what had come over Jacques. That much at least she had done in return for the precious thing his friendship was. At last her eyes were opened. One day she saw her husband striding toward the house from the stables, pale, frowning, splashed with blood. She cried out, and ran to him, "Basil! What's happened? Are you hurt?" "Nonsense! I've just had to kill Juno, that's all." "Kill Juno?" she gasped. "Good Heavens! Was she mad? Did she attack you?" She gathered up her child with an instinctive, fierce gesture of protection. He grinned at her. "What an imagination! Bitches don't go mad, my dear. She littered yesterday, and her pups were all curs, that's all--every damned one of them. Beastly luck! So I've killed the lot of them--Juno, too." She recoiled from him, repeating stupidly, "You _killed_ them? Killed your own dog because her puppies were mongrels? Basil! I--I--don't think I understand." "Time you learned something about breeding," he muttered impatiently. "Don't you know she might never have had another decent pup? Storm's got its reputation to sustain. I can't have the place overrun by a lot of curs." He passed her, and went into the house. She followed, stunned. All through supper, as she sat opposite her husband, listening, answering, serving his needs, the vision was before her of the great hound's eyes as they must have looked when, one by one, he took her puppies from her; when at last she felt the beloved hand at her own throat.