because he was not yet completely reinstated in his own
self-respect, and to patronize places suited to him in a prosperous
future might now invite too much criticism. The Prefontaines knew Miss
Clairville well and had heard from her of the rich Englishman to whom
she was about to be married, and Crabbe was therefore received with
more than Gallic fervour, assigned one of the best rooms, and after
seeing a clergyman and attending to other matters touching the
approaching ceremony, shut himself up with certain manuscripts that he
wished to look over before mailing them to England. He had arrived at
noon on the day of Henry Clairville's death and the next morning
accordingly brought him the news in print. He grew thoughtful for a
while, meant to dispatch a telegram of condolence to Pauline, then
forgot it as he became interested in his work. Two poems in particular
came in for much revision: "The Lay of an Exiled Englishman," and
"Friends on the Astrachan Ranch," pleased him with their lines here and
there, yet the general and final effect seemed disappointing to his
fine critical side; like many another he saw and felt better than he
could perform.

"A Tennysonian ring, I fear. Yet what man alive and writing now can
resist it? It slides into the veins, it creeps along the nerves, it
informs us as we speak and move and have our being. I'll read
aloud--ghastly perhaps, but the only way to judge effect."

He began, and the long lines rose and fell with precision and academic
monotony; he was no elocutionist, but read as authors read their own
works, as Schubert played his own music, and as he read the snow fell
in thick swirling masses outside his window and the cold grew more and
more penetrating and intense. A knock at the door roused him. It was
a servant of the house who spoke English. The host had sent to know
whether the guest was warm.

"Well, come to think of it," said Crabbe, "I'm not too warm, by any
means. You can tell them to fire up downstairs, certainly. What time
is luncheon here?"

"Do you mean dinner, sir?"

"Oh, yes, dinner, of course. One o'clock? Very well."

"No order, sir? For the bar, I mean?"

Crabbe stared at the speaker then straightened himself and looked out
of the window. Was it snowing at St. Ignace, and on Henry Clairville's
grave? Would Pauline go into mourning?

"No, I think not. A bottle of Bass at my dinner--that's all."

The interruption over, he went back to