was. It was clear to Detricand that she expected some one else; it was
also clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though she
looked at him with interest. She had thought of him more than once since
that day when the famous letter from France to the chevalier was read.
She had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow,
with Philip d'Avranche, Philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering.
She was sure that Philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; and
now, looking into the face of Detricand, she could tell that he had been
drinking again. One thing was apparent, however: he was better dressed
than she ever remembered seeing him, better pulled together, and bearing
himself with an air of purpose.

"I've fetched back your handkerchief--you tied up my head with it, you
know," he said, taking it from his pocket. "I'm going away, and I wanted
to thank you."

"Will you not come in, monsieur?" she said.

He readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in his
hand, but he did not give it to her. "Where will you sit?" she said,
looking round. "I'm very busy. You mustn't mind my working," she added,
going to the brass bashin at the fire. "This preserve will spoil if I
don't watch it."

He seated himself on the veille, and nodded his head. "I like this," he
said. "I'm fond of kitchens. I always was. When I was fifteen I was
sent away from home because I liked the stables and the kitchen too well.
Also I fell in love with the cook."

Guida flushed, frowned, her lips tightened, then presently a look of