It was perhaps the greatest tragedy of the
Alexis family, this beautiful tragedy that walked by the side of Paul.
"I am glad your grandfather brought French architects here and built the
modern side," she said. "These rooms are, of course, very interesting,
but gloomy--horribly gloomy, Paul. There is a smell of ghosts and
dulness."
"All the same, I like these rooms," answered Paul. "Steinmetz and I used
to live entirely on this side of the house. This is the smoking-room. We
shot those bears, and all the deer. That is a wolf's head. He killed a
keeper before I finished him off."
Etta looked at her husband with a curious little smile. She sometimes
felt proud of him, despite the ever present knowledge that,
intellectually speaking, she was his superior. There was something
strong and simple and manly in a sort of mediaeval way that pleased her
in this big husband of hers.
"And how did you finish him off?" she asked.
"I choked him. That bear knocked me down, but Steinmetz shot him. We
were four days out in the open after that elk. This is a lynx--a queer
face--rather like De Chauxville; the dogs killed him."
"But why do you not paper the room," asked Etta, with a shiver, "instead
of this gloomy panelling? It is so mysterious and creepy. Quite
suggestive of secret passages."
"There are no secret passages," answered Paul.
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