Italian! Blaise felt more convinced than ever now that Madame de Varigny’s visit portended unpleasant developments. Something, a voice from the past, was about to break stridently on the peaceful present. He braced himself to meet and counter whatever might be coming. Vaguely he foresaw some kind of blackmail, and he thanked Heaven for Jean’s absolute understanding and complete knowledge of the past and of all that appertained to his first unhappy marriage. There would be little foothold here for an attempt at blackmail, however skilfully worked, he reflected grimly. He therefore responded civilly to Madame de Varigny’s statement, apparently accepting it at its mere face value. “I am surprised,” he told her. “You have altogether the air of a Parisian.” The Countess smiled. “Oh, I had a French grandmother,” she returned carelessly. “Also, I have lived much in Paris.” “Ah! that explains it,” replied Tormarin, leaning back in his chair as though satisfied. “It’s the influence of environment and heredity, I expect.” He was fencing carefully, waiting for the woman to show her hand. “I have also Corsican blood in my veins,” pursued Madame de Varigny. Then, as Tormarin made no answer, she leaned forward and said intently: “Do you know the characteristic of the Corsicans, Monsieur Tor-ma-rin? They never forget--_nevaire_”--her foreign accent increasing, as usual, with emotion of any kind. “The Corsican always repays.” “Yes? And you have something to repay? Is that it?” “Yes. I have something to repay.” “A revenge, in fact?” “She shook her head. “No. I do not call it revenge. It is punishment--the just punishment earned by the man who married Nesta Freyne and brought her in return nothing but misery.” Tormarin rose abruptly. “What have the affairs of Nesta Freyne to do with you?” he asked sternly. “As you are obviously aware, she was my wife. And I do not propose to discuss private personal matters with an entire stranger.” He moved towards the door. “I think our interview can very well terminate at that. I do not wish to forget that I am your host.” “You are more than that,” said Madame de Varigny suavely. “You are my brother-in-law.” “_What?_” Tormarin swung ’round and faced her. “Yes.” The suavity was gone now, replaced by a curious deadly precision of utterance, enhanced by the foreign rendering of syllabic values. “I am--or was, until my marriage--Margherita Valdi. I am Nesta’s sister.” Tormarin regarded her steadily. “In that case,” he said, “I will hear what you have to say. Though I don’t think,” he added, “that any good can come of raking up the past. It is better--forgotten.”