Smith and I walked out and across toward the cow-stables.
There was nothing to see there except chickens; the little brown Swiss cattle being in pasture on the Bec de l'Empereur.
"If time hangs heavy with you, Smith," I ventured, "why not drive the cows home and milk them in the evenings?"
He told me, profanely, that he had plenty to do to amuse himself.
"What, for example, did he tell you?"
"Write letters," he said,—"for example."
"To friends in dear old Norway, I suppose," said I flippantly.
"To whomever I darn well please," he rejoined drily.
That, of course, precluded further playful inquiry. Baffled, I walked on beside him. But I sullenly decided to stick to him until Clelia had done the chamber-work and had safely retired to regions below stairs.
Several times he remarked he'd forgotten something and ought to go to his rooms to look for the missing objects. I pretended not to hear him and he hadn't the effrontery to attempt it.