"Now," said Charles squarely, "where is my wife? Is she hiding from me?"

Then Philip's face must grow very grave and his mouth set in sad lines.

"She is ill, Charles. I would have told you sooner, but you lacked
interest."

Charles swallowed to steady his voice.

"How--ill?"

"A short and violent illness," said Philip. "All of last night the women
have been with her, and this morning--" He glanced toward the window. "I
was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."

Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this
morning?" he roared.

"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year."
Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.

"Would you like to see her?"

Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.

"I doubt if she cares to see me."

"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words--she is a true woman,
and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly