“A traveller too, like myself, Monsieur Valmond? But Pontiac--why Pontiac?” A furtive, inquiring look shot from the eyes of the young Seigneur, a puzzled glance from the Cure’s, as they watched Valmond; for they did not know that he had knowledge of English; he had not spoken it to Medallion, who had sent into his talk several English words. How did this woman divine it? A strange suspicion flashed into Valmond’s face, but it was gone on the instant, and he replied quickly: “Yes, madame, a traveller; and for Pontiac--there is as much earth and sky about Pontiac as about Paris or London or New York.” “But people count, Monsieur-Valmond.” She hesitated before the name, as if trying to remember, though she recalled perfectly. It was her tiny fashion to pique, to appear unknowing. “Truly, Madame Chalice,” he answered instantly, for he did not yield to the temptation to pause before her name; “but sometimes the few are as important to us as the many--eh?” She almost started at the eh, for it broke in grimly upon the gentlemanly flavour of his speech. “If my reasons for coming were only as good as madame’s--” he added. “Who knows!” she said, with her eyes resting idly on his flowered waistcoat, and dropping to the incongruous enamelled knee-boots with their red tassels. She turned to the Cure again, but not till Valmond had added: “Or the same--who knows?” Again she looked at him with drooping eyelids and a slight smile so full of acid possibilities that De la Riviere drew in a sibilant breath of delight. Her movement had been as towards an impertinence; but as she caught Valmond’s eye, something in it, so really boylike, earnest, and free from insolence, met hers, that, with a little way she had, she laid back her head slowly, her lips parted in a sweet, ambiguous smile, her eyes dwelt on him with a humorous interest, or flash of purpose, and she said softly: “Nobody knows--eh?” She could not resist the delicate malice of the exclamation, she imitated the gaucherie so delightfully. Valmond did not fail to see her meaning, but he was too wise to show it. He hardly knew how it was he had answered her unhesitatingly in English, for it had been his purpose to avoid speaking English in Pontiac. Presently Madame Chalice caught sight of Monsieur Garon coming from the house. When he saw her, he stopped short in delighted surprise. Gathering up her skirts, she ran to him, put both hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the cheek, and said: “Monsieur Garon, Monsieur Garon, my good avocat, my Solon! are the coffee, and the history, and the blest madeira still chez-toi?”