Monsieur de Maubert had got up and gone inside and mademoiselle Blanche had parted from them at the cliff-top. “I will sit here in the shade with you and rest, _chère madame_,” said André, casting himself into monsieur de Maubert’s vacated garden chair. “And you, _ma petite_,” said madame Vervier, still holding her child by the hand, “may, if you wish, and if monsieur Giles will accompany you, bathe now. You will have time before lunch.” “I should like that very much. But I do not need anyone. It is quite safe,” said Alix, with a curious lassitude in her tone. “But, indeed, you may not go alone,” smiled madame Vervier. “And I should love a swim,” said Giles. So, presently, he and Alix were on the beach again. But when they came to the rock where, with safety, the bathing-robes might be deposited, Alix, instead of doffing hers, sat down and said: “Shall we talk a little?” “Do let us talk,” said Giles, and a great wave of relief went through him. At all events, Alix would not keep things from him. He sat down beside her. Only the sea and sky were before them. “I had to tell Maman last night, Giles,” said Alix. She looked straight before her, wrapped to her chin in the white folds of her robe, and he felt that she had to keep herself by sheer self-mastery from reddening before him now, as she had last night when she had heard Maman talk of Toppie. “Ah. Yes,” said Giles as quietly as he was able. “I thought perhaps you’d feel it best.” Alix, her dark brows slightly knotted, looked before her. “And I think she sent me here with you so that I should tell you,” she went on. “Tell you, I mean, that she believed what she said last night about Captain Owen and Toppie. That Toppie was first with him. Not until I told her of his silence to you all did she see—what you and I saw, Giles;—that he cared most for her.” Giles sat, struck to an icy caution. Yes; he saw it in a flash; that was how she would put it to Alix. He could find no word. But Alix expected none. Carefully she continued her tale. “It made her very sad when I told her of his silence. It made her cry. But she was not angry with me for having kept it from her. She understood.” “And was she angry with him?” Giles asked after a moment. Alix at that turned her eyes upon him and he read in them a deep perplexity. “I do not know,” she said. “She did not say. I do not think she was angry with him either. She is a person who understands everything. But I do not think she would have been so unhappy if it had not hurt her very much. Why else should she cry?” Why, indeed? Was it for her unveiling before himself? How difficult to think it after the blank gaze of those dark eyes. Was it not, rather, in fear and grief at seeing her child entangled, at last, in her vicissitudes? However it might be, there was a new burden on her heart and, inevitably, Alix now must bear part of its weight with her. “Well, I’m glad it’s all out,” Giles murmured. “It makes everything simpler, doesn’t it?”