“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She's a little devil, she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note.
“Why?” he said. “Why didn't you wring that b—— peacock's neck—that b——Joey?”
“Why?” I said. “What for?”
“I hate the brute,” he said. “I let fly at him the night I got back——”
I laughed. He stood and mused.
“Poor little Elise,” 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.