the talk went on. A stranger, looking in through the window, would
have taken them for mother and son, and would have thought to himself:
"What a happy home!"

The gossip, led by Noel Vanstone, consisted as usual of an endless
string of questions, and was devoted entirely to the subject of himself
and his future prospects. Where would Lecount take him to when they went
away the next morning? Why to London? Why should he be left in London,
while Lecount went on to St. Crux to give the admiral the Letter and the
Will? Because his wife might follow him, if he went to the admiral's?
Well, there was something in that. And because he ought to be safely
concealed from her, in some comfortable lodging, near Mr. Loscombe? Why
near Mr. Loscombe? Ah, yes, to be sure--to know what the law would do
to help him. Would the law set him free from the Wretch who had deceived
him? How tiresome of Lecount not to know! Would the law say he had gone
and married himself a second time, because he had been living with
the Wretch, like husband and wife, in Scotland? Anything that publicly
assumed to be a marriage was a marriage (he had heard) in Scotland. How
excessively tiresome of Lecount to sit there and say she knew nothing
about it! Was he to stay long in London by himself, with nobody but Mr.
Loscombe to speak to? Would Lecount come back to him as soon as she had
put those important papers in the admiral's own hands? Would Lecount
consider herself still in his service? The good Lecount! the excellent
Lecount! And after all the law-business was over--what then? Why not
leave this horrid England and go abroad again? Why not go to France, to
some cheap place near Paris? Say Versailles? say St. Germain? In a nice
little French house--cheap? With a nice French _bonne_ to cook--who
wouldn't waste his substance in the grease-pot? With a nice little
garden--where he could work himself, and get health, and save the
expense of keeping a gardener? It wasn't a bad idea. And it seemed to
promise well for the future--didn't it, Lecount?

So he ran on--the poor weak creature! the abject, miserable little man!

As the darkness gathered at the close of the short November day he began
to grow drowsy--his ceaseless questions came to an end at last--he fell
asleep. The wind outside sang its mournful winter-song; the tramp of
passing footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road ceased in
dreary silence. He slept on quietly. The firelight rose and fell on