A joyful tattoo beating against her ribs, Claire ran down the long vaulted corridor and knocked upon the door of Mme. Petrovskey's study. A deep voice boomed permission to enter. Claire burst into the room almost violently. "It's a letter from Alexis, Aunt. Do please read it and tell me what he says!" "Give it to me!" A large woman, seated at a roll-top desk, revolved round in her chair, took the letter without a word and started to read it. Hands clasped tightly together, Claire watched her eagerly. It was one of those bland, non-committal faces, full and inclined to be weather-beaten, which are often called motherly because they top a large motherly body, and have the smooth expressionless surface of a rag doll. But Claire knew the face very well indeed, had studied it since childhood, so that the minutest pinching of the puckered lips, the slightest increase in color, spoke volumes. And the letter was evidently disturbing indeed, judging from the mottled purple on her aunt's cheeks, the angry clutch of the broad fingers upon the crumpled sheets. As Mme. Petrovskey turned the last page she laid the letter deliberately upon the desk, and turned her back upon Claire. "Well," faltered the girl. "Is Alexis all right and is--is he coming back soon? Shall I tell the chauffeur to wait for your answer?" "There is no answer!" The voice was harsh and self-contained. For the first time she looked at Claire, who shrank beneath the stare of the small glassy eyes. "What are you doing in here?" she asked, pinching her lips. "Where you know you are not permitted, you and your dog?" she added with a contemptuous glare, at the microscopic Griffon. Claire stooped and gathered Bébé up in her arms. "The--the letter, it is from Alexis!" she stammered. "Please--please read it to me, Aunt!" She trembled visibly at her own boldness. Her evident fear irritated Mme. Petrovskey. "Yes, it is from Alexis," she replied glacially, "but there is no message in it for you." She revolved once more in her chair, and commenced to write again fast and furiously. A low cry of despair and rage escaped Claire. "You are cruel," she cried chokingly. "I have a right to know! Am I not his wife!" The revolving chair remained immovable. Mme. Petrovskey bent a purple face over her writing. "He says he is better, but is taking a further rest-cure, and doesn't wish us to know his address. He will communicate with us later," she replied in suppressed and uneven tones, her obstinate back still turned upon the girl. Claire gasped with relief. "Then when he is better, he will come back?" she insisted in a firmer voice. Mme. Petrovskey threw her pen from her in a violent gesture. The face she turned upon her niece was pale and convulsed. "He is never coming back!" she cried with suppressed fury. "He is going to manage his own life after this. He says now that he cannot play the violin any more, he is free to live as he likes!"