“And now how explain to the _Chevalier_? How keep Basil in the dark when he writes asking for news?” Régis thought, while regaining his study. His brows were knit, and for the second time that night he sank into deep thought from the depths of an arm-chair, smoking cigarette after cigarette, without, however, attaining to any satisfactory conclusion. “_Elle n’est pas très forte_,” he said several times to himself during the course of this long cogitation. No, Laurence was not very strong in the sense he meant. Her finesses were sewn with white thread, her attempts at duping her fellow-creatures not quite sufficiently finished in detail, yet she seemed to have hoodwinked, tricked, done ... that splendid chap, her husband! Régis moved restlessly. Of course he knew how some husbands could be blinded in spite of the sun, the moon, and the stars of every magnitude staring them in the face, but Basil was not made of that stuff. Then for an instant the pendulum swung back, and he asked himself whether he could possibly have been unjust. His long-standing antipathy for Laurence! Had it led him astray? He angrily threw one leg over the arm of his chair and asked himself that question squarely and fairly. “No! A thousand times no!” he suddenly exclaimed aloud. “I saw it all. Her eyes, her lips, her poise, were not those of an innocent woman--and her little attempt upon my own modest virtue! Pah! It’s all as clear as daylight, and time will show it to be only too true. Meanwhile I’m going to take my _Chevalier_ to farthest Brittany at once. It will be safer.” He rose, stretched himself, laughed a little nervously, and moved slowly up-stairs. As he passed the flower-gallery he heard the rush of fierce wind and rain driving on the glass dome. Against the rosy glow of the half-lowered hanging-lamps he saw a flock of sodden leaves clinging to the panes like great, green moths, seeking entrance to escape from the sudden squall, and with something between a yawn and a sigh he went on to his own rooms. CHAPTER XII Honor and old ideals, I fear Are with the snows of yester-year, Or like old houses--straitly mewed In some sequestered solitude.