he had written the evening before the prawn-fishing, but, as he impatiently declared, “I never get a letter from him, little darling Malou!” Marguerite cruelly felt this persistent neglect of Piotr. She invented messages with untiring assiduity, but as a matter of fact, “_Mes remerciements émus à ma cousine Marguerite_,” was the only allusion ever made by Basil to Piotr’s existence. The de Salvières were in Russia, looking after both their own estates and Basil’s; Pavlo was now a first-lieutenant of great promise; the peasants of Tverna, trotting easily in firm but light harness, exploded no longer. As Tatiana once had told Preston Wynne, “_Tout est pour le mieux dans çe meilleur des mondes._” It was then that a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand began to float imperceptibly upward toward the coast of Brittany from the blunt apex of South Africa, where Basil had been sojourning for a while, as a letter bore witness: I am heartily tired of wandering [he wrote confidentially to Régis]. Weary of visiting place after place which holds no interest for me, and yet I cannot make up my mind to settle down again, either in France or in Russia. There seems nothing for me to do in either--or, for the matter of that, anywhere else in the world, alas! Duties I have none left--or if I have, disgust obstructs my view, and I do not see them. As soon as Piotr is old enough to be put in a military academy I will know better what to do. I had a nice surprise some time ago! Imagine that among the effects and personal possessions left in the Paris house by the lady who bore my name, and which I had caused to be packed and stowed away under the supervision of Stepàn-Stepànovitch, my agent, he found a writing-map I had once given her--a very splendid affair of Tula-work and turquoises. Well, overstepping my orders, he made an exhaustive examination of this object, read with a looking-glass from the reversed writing printed and on the blotting-paper inside, more convincing proofs yet of her guilty conduct with the young English captain I had the misfortune to despatch from this world--God knows his life was too dear a price to pay for her love--and also traces of equally enlightening letters written to that poor chap who gave me satisfaction in a way--Heaven is my witness--I will mourn for a long time to come. I would much rather that Stepàn had let bad enough alone. It is hard as it is to try and forget a little of all this--if not to forgive it. But now to come to the real point of my letter: Do you think I could venture to come and spend a few days near you? Not at Plenhöel, for I cannot--no, I cannot see Piotr just yet--but in the neighborhood, so as to be enabled to see _you_ and discuss matters with you. I am thinking of starting for Canada, or perhaps Mexico, afterward; I don’t know which, nor do I much care! One thing is certain: I will not go to the States, and be looked upon from the moment of landing as a