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As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping eyes: “Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?”

As she pushed a chair under him she whispered through his hair: “You!” and then was gone away to fetch pea-soup for six hungry men.

The Louis Quinze did more business now in three months than it had done before in six. But it became known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was notorious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one guessed, and, when it did come, her name was very intimately associated with Fabian’s. No one could say that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also no one could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian, and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of everything–religion (she was a Protestant), character, race. She was clever, as the young Seigneur found, as the little Avocat was forced to admit, as the Cure allowed with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at all and very little of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, and it was clear that he intended to bring the woman to the Manor one way or another.

Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, despaired, went to Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and made his final and only effort to turn his brother from the girl.

He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his brother, and when Fabian got in, he drove on without a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in high spirits, said:

“Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead.”

Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian’s humour was contagious:

“There was a little man,
The foolish Guilleri
Carabi.
He went unto the chase,
Of partridges the chase.
Carabi.
Titi Carabi,
Toto Carabo,
You’re going to break your neck,
My lovely Guilleri!”

He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying:

“You’re going to break your neck, Fabian.”

“What’s up, Henri?” was the reply.

“You’re drinking hard, and you don’t keep good company.”

Fabian laughed. “Can’t get the company I want, so what I can get I have, Henri, my lad.”

“Don’t drink.” Henri laid his freehand on Fabian’s knee.

“Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me–I was born on New Year’s Day, old coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty jars that day.” Henri sighed. “That’s the drink, Fabian,” he said patiently. “Give up the company. I’ll be better company for you than that girl, Fabian.”

“Girl? What the devil do you mean!”

“She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian.”

“Nell Barraway–you mean her? Bosh! I’m going to marry her, Henri.”

“You mustn’t, Fabian,” said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian’s sleeve.

“But I must, my Henri. She’s the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever saw–splendid. Never lonely with her.”

“Looks and brains isn’t everything, Fabian.”

“Isn’t it, though? Isn’t it? Tiens, you try it!”

“Not without goodness.” Henri’s voice weakened.

“That’s bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a woman, if she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don’t care a sou whether she is good or not.”

“You mean whether she was good or not?”

“No, I don’t. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she’ll travel straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don’t know anything about it!”

“I know all about it.”

“Know all about it! You’re in love–you?”

“Yes.”

Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. “Godam!” he said. It was his one English oath.

“Is she good company?” he asked after a minute.

“She’s the same as you keep–voila, the same.”

“You mean Nell–Nell?” asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice.