"He, madame? It has not even occurred to him. He would not presume."
"Poor idealist!" said Adriance. "We will take the theatrical guitar, but wrap it up so I can get home without someone tossing me a penny."
He laughed as he spoke, and had forgotten the guitar's story before they reached Alaric Cottage. But Elsie neither laughed nor forgot. That evening, as she sat across the hearth from Anthony, evoking music gay or weird for his enchantment, she thought much of the girl who had last played her decorative instrument.
"Is it my guitar, truly, Anthony?" she questioned, at last.
"It certainly isn't mine," he retorted teasingly.
She made a grimace at him. But she also made a resolve.
CHAPTER XVII
Russian Mike and Maître Raoul Galvez
Russian Mike lived in a settlement perhaps a mile back from the river road. He usually passed the Adriances' house each morning, a few moments earlier than the lighter-footed Anthony set forth, whose swinging stride carried him two steps to the big man's one. Elsie had long since made acquaintance with her husband's assistant. During the bitter weather she frequently had called him from the snow-piled road to warm his slow blood with a cup of her vivifying Creole coffee. The Monday morning following the purchase of the guitar, she knew just when to run down the path and find the bulky, lounging figure passing her gate.
At the sight of the girl in her lilac-hued frock, a drift of white-wool scarf wound about her shoulders, her dark little head shining almost bronze in the bright morning light, Mike came to a halt and awkwardly jerked at his coarse cap. It had flaps that fastened down under his chin, so that he was embarrassed equally by the difficulty of removing his headgear and the inconvenance of remaining covered. But Elsie's smile was a sunshine of the heart that melted such chills of doubt, as she came up to him.