For I knew now
that I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pushed
a couple of big pebbles into the pit instead of the skull itself. "By jingo!" said I, "I'm nervous; my liver must be in a devil of a
condition if I see such things when I'm awake! Lys will know what to
give me." I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of Le
Bihan and Max Fortin. But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, the
chemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively, watching the
sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight fell for a moment
over ocean and moorland, a wistful, restless happiness filled my heart,
the happiness that all men know--all men who have loved. Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs darkened; the
forest was shrouded. Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world was
alight again. Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted with
it; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and pulsated with the
gentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and tossing above the sand bar,
their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheering
the surface of the still river, stained to its placid depths with warm
reflections of the clouds. The twitter of drowsy hedge birds broke out
in the stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above tide-water. The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. I
sat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first low
rumour of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cut
the silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung
waters. I raised my head. Lys stood before me in the garden. When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down
the gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as
the tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were
atremble with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom,
perfuming the salt wind. "Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend
Christmas with us?" "Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent her
love to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?" "A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine
not to touch them until you had seen them." Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic
over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfully
denied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. So
she dragged me off to inspect the rather meagre game bag, and she paid
me pretty compliments and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I
lifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears. "He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said, attempting to justify the
assassination. "Unhappy little bunny--and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid
shot, are you not?" I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge. "Poor little dead things!" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems a
pity--doesn't it, Dick? But then you are so clever----"

"We'll have them broiled," I said guardedly; "tell Catherine." Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently 'Fine Lelocard,
Lys's maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir. I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking, "My boy,
you're the happiest fellow in the world--you're in love with your
wife!" I walked into the dining room, beamed at the plates, walked out again;
met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen,
beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming. Before I could knock at Lys's door it opened, and Lys came hastily out. When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to
my breast. "There is something peering in at my window," she said. "What!" I cried angrily. "A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on. He must
have climbed up by the bay tree." I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit garden
was absolutely deserted. Tregunc came up, and together we searched the
hedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road. "Jean Marie," said I at length, "loose my bulldog--he knows you--and
take your supper on the porch where you can watch. My wife says the
fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask." Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care to venture
in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel." I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table. "The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was only some
foolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do
such a thing." I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a
stupid joke, and after a while I began to look at it in that light. Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have Herbert
Stuart down to meet her. "You wicked diplomat!" I protested. "Herbert is in Paris, and hard at
work for the Salon." "Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girl
in Finistère?" inquired Lys innocently. "Prettiest girl! Not much!" I said. "Who is, then?" urged Lys. I laughed a trifle sheepishly. "I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, colouring up. "Now I bore you, don't I?" "Bore me? Ah, no, Dick." After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys
approved. "Poor Jean! he will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow you are!" "Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys." But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Môme,
who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation. "I am a very happy woman," said Lys. "Môme was a very bad dog to-day," I observed. "Poor Môme!" said Lys, smiling. When dinner was over and Môme lay snoring before the blaze--for the
October nights are often chilly in Finistère--Lys curled up in the
chimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance from
under her drooping lashes. "You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I don't believe
you are sixteen yet." She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as
white as surf foam. "Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I said. She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her
knee, smiling faintly. "I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. "Do you think
it will fit?" "Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed. "And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you--er--we shall need
it?" "Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate colour touched her cheeks and neck. She held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought
with quaint embroidery. "It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too much, dearest. May I smoke a pipe?" "Of course," she said, selecting a skein of pale blue silk. For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingers
among the tinted silks and thread of gold.