They entered into a period of secret contentment and understanding.
Ludowika displayed a grave interest in the details of the house and iron
at Myrtle Forge; he explained the processes that resulted in the wrought
blooms despatched by tons in the lumbering, mule-drawn wagons. They
explored the farm, where she listened approvingly to the changes he
proposed making, kitchen gardens to be planted, the hedges of roses and
gravelled paths to be laid--for her. She suggested an Italian walk,
latticed above, with a stone seat, and was indicating a corner that
might be transformed into a semblance of an angle of Versailles, when,
suddenly, she stopped, and clasped his wrist.

"No! No!" she exclaimed, with surprising energy. "We'll have no France,
no court, here, but only America; only you and myself, with no past, no
memories, but just the future." How that was to be realized neither of
them considered; they avoided all practical issues, difficulties. They
never mentioned Felix Winscombe's name. However, a long communication
came from him for his wife. She read it thoughtfully, in the drawing
room, awaiting dinner. No one else but Howat was present, and he was
standing with his hand on her shoulder. "Felix hasn't been well," she
remarked presently. "For the first time he has spoken to me of his age.
The Maryland affair drags, and that has wearied him."

"What does he say about returning?" Howat bluntly asked.

"Shortly, he hopes; that is, in another ten days. He says there is a
good ship, the _Lindamira_, by the middle of November." Howat said,
"Excellent." Ludowika gazed at him swiftly. "It will be difficult." His
face became grim, but he made no direct reply. A silence fell on the
room through which vibrated the blows of the trip hammer at the Forge.