Anne understood, or thought she did; and a nod and smile from her went a long way towards reassuring Angelot, who had been a little puzzled by the sudden appearance of the soldier. But he was not curious; his father was by no means in the habit of telling him everything, making indeed a thin cloud of wilful mystery about some of his doings. It had always been so; and Angelot had grown up with a certain amount of blind trust in the hand which had guided his mother and himself through the thorny years of his childhood. At this moment he was distracted by a very serious attack on Négo. The dog would have to be shot, Monsieur Urbain said, if he received people so savagely; and in defending Négo the rest of Angelot's breakfast-time was spent. Later on he was a little surprised by his father's telling him to go alone to La Joubardière and arrange about the vintage. Urbain had remembered business, he said, which called him to Lancilly. He turned away and left the room without a word, without seeing, or perhaps choosing to see, the sudden flame of irritation in Anne's dark eyes, the light of another feeling in Angelot's. The young fellow lingered a moment in the dining-room window, and watched the sturdy figure walking away in linen clothes and a straw hat, the shoulders slightly bent from study, the whole effect that of honest strength and capacity, not at all of intrigue and ruse. Then he turned round and met his mother's eyes. For a moment it seemed as if they must read each other's soul. But Anne only said: "Do not delay, my boy. Go to Joubard; arrange things to please your father. We must remember; he is wiser than we are; he does the best for us all." "Yes, my little mother," said Angelot. "Only--Négo shall not be shot. Yes, I am going this instant." He took her hand and kissed it. She pushed back his hair and kissed his forehead. "And what are you going to do?" he said. "Come with me to see the old Joubards." "No, no. I must go to the church," she said. "I was hurried this morning." As Urbain crossed the valley, going through the little hamlet, down the white stony lane, between high hedges, then by field paths across to the lower poplar-shaded road, then along by the slow, bright stream to the bridge and the first white houses of Lancilly, he thought with some amusement and satisfaction of that morning's diplomacy. He had not the smallest intention of taking his dear and pretty Anne into his confidence. The little plot, which Adélaïde and he had hatched so cleverly, must remain between them and the General.