“I hate the brute,” he said. “I had a shot at him—”
I laughed. He stood and mused.
“Poor little Élise,” he murmured.
“Was she small—petite?” I asked. He jerked up his head.
“No,” he said. “Rather tall.”
“Taller than your wife, I suppose.”
Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again.
“God, it’s a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him, his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.
“But I’ll do that blasted Joey in—” he mused.
I ran down the hill, shouting with laughter.