“No; for it is a male cat, Maman,” said Alix with austere realism. “You need fear nothing on that score. There will be no more kittens to trouble you.” “_A la bonne heure!_” laughed madame Vervier. “But she returns to you, after her holiday with us here, the charming young creature,” André, when Alix had carried away her kitten, observed to Giles. It was remarkable, the sense they all gave Giles, that Alix was permanently his responsibility, and André’s voice had almost the geniality of family affection. If not he, then another English husband. Alix’s future had been, by those most concerned with it—by himself and by her mother—definitely agreed upon; that was the fact to which André’s voice and smile bore witness; and madame Vervier was certainly imparting the same news to monsieur de Maubert as she now sat embroidering beside him in her Ingres dress and scarf. Alix herself, meanwhile, remained in ignorance of her destiny. “Rather a shame she shouldn’t know it yet,” said Giles. “She thinks she’s going back to Paris, you see.” “Shame? Oh, no,” said André in gentle surprise. “It is much better that she should have her holiday unspoiled. We are to say nothing of it to her—as madame Vervier will tell you.—It would grieve her too much to hear it now. By degrees, as the time draws near, her mother will prepare her mind and bring her to see the wisdom of the decision.” That, of course, would be André’s point of view. He took it for granted that _jeunes filles_ should be kept in ignorance of their destiny until such time as their elders thought fit to enlighten them. Giles was aware of a confused anger that seemed to involve himself as well as André and madame Vervier. “Since she and her mother are so devoted, it’s a pity, I think, to hoodwink her,” he said. “I hope her mother will tell her what she’s decided on at once. I shall advise her to tell her.” At this point, suddenly, a voice dropped to them through the darkness. “I am sorry. My room is above you. I can hear all that you say.” Alix’s voice. Thrilling with bitterness. The young men sat mute, eyeing each other. “_Dieu! Quelle gaffe ai-je commise!_” whispered André, and—“How much has she heard?” “As little as she could, you may be sure,” Giles muttered. André found his resource. “_Très bien! Très bien_, mademoiselle Alix,” he called. “But this is a case where _une écouteuse_ would hear only good of herself.” Alix made no reply. The windows of her room, Giles now remembered, opened beside his, on the roof of the verandah. She must have heard all if she had stood near them. “This is very unfortunate,” André murmured. “I have been stupid; very stupid. I must at once make my confession.” “Yes. You’d better,” said Giles grimly. “It wouldn’t do for her mother to go up now and pretend she’d made no plans at all.”