“And now, indefatigable as you are, _ma chère enfant_,” said monsieur de Maubert when he and Giles and Alix were left alone, “framed of steel and india-rubber as I sometimes feel you to be when I watch your day, you will doubtless wish to go for a walk with monsieur Giles. Do not hesitate to leave me. I shall, I think, have a siesta here with my head in the shade and my feet in the sunset; even in the details of life, monsieur Giles, I am, you see, the Epicurean.” Giles knew, then, that madame Vervier’s intentions, in regard to himself and Alix, had been imparted to monsieur de Maubert who thus took occasion for furthering them. But Alix said: “No; the walk is not to be with Giles. I have promised Annette Laboulie to catch shrimps with her on the beach till supper-time.” “And who,” monsieur de Maubert, kindly, yet with a certain austerity inquired, “is Annette Laboulie?” “She came with my shoes her father had mended, the other afternoon. Do you remember? A dark, thin girl. She has not enough to eat.” “You mean the sad young ragamuffin with the untidy hair? Not enough to eat? That must be seen to.” “She is a ragamuffin; and untidy; I reproach her for that. But she is clean. And she is a clever girl in all sorts of ways. There are eight children, and Annette is a mother to them all. We are great friends. I used to play with her when I was little and Maman and I first came here.” “Monsieur Giles, you are not flattered by this preference!” smiled monsieur de Maubert. “And they don’t even invite me to join them!” laughed Giles. But he understood. After the longing to know what Maman had said to Giles must come the longing to know what Giles now felt about Maman; but Alix wanted none of his impressions until those of Maman had been vouchsafed to her. As if by some deep instinct she knew that her destiny had been in question that afternoon. “But do come with us, Giles,” she now said, and he replied that he really had letters he ought to write. “Letters home. You see my time here is up.” “Up? Indeed? Why up?” monsieur de Maubert inquired very kindly. “Well, I’ve stayed already longer than I intended and they all expect me back in time to start next Monday on a walking tour around the coast of Cornwall.” “Next Monday? But that means that you will leave us the day after to-morrow. You will miss our Sunday excursion to Caudebec.” “I’m afraid I must.” Alix was looking at him; wondering, he knew, whether his resolve was sudden. After he had written his letter to his mother, he went out into the village to post it, and coming back by the cliff he was able to see that even if Annette had been an improvisation the drama of the shrimping was being carried out. The two girls were pushing their nets before them on the sands, bare-legged, in the shallow water. Their voices, bell-like, came to him through the evening air. Alix laughed.