Nicette was nowhere visible. Ned stole into the house and along the passage. A strip of thick matting, where had formerly been naked flags, deadened the sound of his footfalls. Laughter, but laughter a little thrilling, tingled in his veins. A certain apprehension, that time might not have dealt as drastically as he had desired it would with a misconstructive fancy, was lifted from his mind since yesterday. He felt there could be small doubt but that his own image had been deposed and replaced by a very idol of vanity--a self-conscious Adaiah that must find its supremest gratification in proving its consistency with the character assigned it. Indeed, his moderate faith in himself as an attractive quantity inclined him, perhaps, to underrate his moral influence. He had not yet learned that to many women there is no chase so captivating as that of incarnate diffidence. He came softly upon Nicette in the dairy that was a little endeared to him by remembrance. Perhaps he would not have ventured unannounced to seek her in the more inner privacy of her own nest. But the cool dairy was good for a neutral ground. She stood with her back to him. The sunlight, reflected from vivid leafiness through the window, made a soft luminosity of the curve of her cheek, that was like the pale under-side of a peach. It ruffled the rebellious tendrils of hair on her forehead into a mist of green; it stained her white chaperon with tender vert, and discoloured the straight blue folds of her dress. Was she, he thought, a half-converted dryad or a lapsing saint? “Nicette!” he said aloud. She gave a strangled gasp and faced about, her eyes scared, a hand upon her bosom. She had been disposing on a slab a little gift of spring chickens and some household preserves. “Did I startle you?” said Ned. “But you knew I was returned and must surely come and see you.” “Monsieur, you steal upon me like a ghost,” she muttered. “Of what, girl? Of no regret, I hope?” Her cheek was gathering a little dawn of colour. “All ghosts of the past are sorrowful,” she said low. “True,” he answered, seriously and gently. “I did not mean to awaken sad memories. And thou hast never had news of the little one?” “Never, monsieur.” “It is lamentable.” Her eyes were watching him intently. “You commiserate me, monsieur?” she said. “How can you doubt it, Nicette?” “Yet you do not love children?” “Don’t I?” “But their cunning and their vindictiveness, monsieur?” “What of them?” “What, indeed? It is monsieur’s own words I recall.” “Nicette, can you think me such a brute? I hold myself abashed in the presence of the innocents. If I have ever decried them, it was only because their truthfulness rebuked my scepticism. They have shown me how to die, since I saw you last, Nicette. I shall try to remember when my hour comes.” She passed a hand across her eyes, as though she were bewildered. “But this inconsistency,” she began, murmuring.