When she reached Heathside she heard that the little boys had returned. They were shouting in the garden with the dogs, and Alix retraced her steps, skirting the kitchen-garden wall, going softly in by the little gate, creeping along the back passages past kitchen and scullery unobserved. Here was Giles’s study. She turned the handle and went in. Giles was there, sitting at his desk and writing. He had a sick, dogged look; but he had recovered his composure. He even, as he turned his head and looked at her, tried to summon a smile of welcome and she knew that he felt ashamed for having broken down before her. Alix shut the door and stood against it. “Giles, I have done a dreadful thing,” she said. Only when she leaned against the door did she know that she was almost fainting. She felt that all that she desired was sleep. To tell Giles and then to fall into oblivion. Far away, in France, she saw where she and Maman, in a sunny garden, walked hand in hand. They both seemed very old. They were very sad. Yet they smiled at each other. But this vision was far away. The black ordeal was before her. “I have done a dreadful thing,” she repeated. “Perhaps you will not forgive me.” Giles had risen to his feet and stood, over against the window, tall and dark with his ruffled head. He was looking at her and his eyes were frightened. “I have been to Toppie,” said Alix. “I have told her everything.” He did not find a word to say. “It was for your sake I did it, Giles,” said Alix in a dry, unappealing voice. “I told her so that she might know it was you who loved her; not he. Perhaps you will not forgive me.” Giles spoke. “You told her about Owen?” “About Owen. That he was Maman’s lover.” Giles put his hand up and pushed it through his hair. “You told her that for my sake?” “Yes, Giles. So that she should not leave you to be nearer him.” “Did you know what you were saying, Alix?” said Giles, after another moment; and after yet another moment Alix answered him. “Not when I told her. But afterwards. After what she said. She said that Maman was a wicked woman. She said that Maman was a woman who had lovers. She said that for a woman there is no greater sin. And now, I think, I understand. Giles—Is it true?” “My darling little Alix,” said Giles in a strange, stern voice, “it is true. But she’s not wicked. She’s wrong; but not wicked. She’s lovely, and unfortunate, and wrong, and she needs your love more than ever.” As Giles spoke these words, Alix suddenly stumbled forward. She put out her hands blindly—for as she heard him her tears rushed down from under shut lids—and Giles’s arms received her. She was sobbing against his breast. “Oh, Giles, thank you! Oh, Giles, do you forgive me?” “My darling child—my darling little Alix—I understand it all,” said Giles. PART IV CHAPTER I