She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. And yet, mulling it over, he began to understand why the white man was so powerful in the world: he was taught loyalty and fair play in his schools, and he carried this spirit the world which his forebears had conquered. I would have liked to know. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. "I shall do no such thing. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding.
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