“We needn’t talk about any of that, you see, any more,” Giles took up presently, having walked to the window and back again while he raged at his helplessness. “Never forget what I said to you yesterday. That’s all you need understand. I’ll make Mummy understand it, too. And as for you, she only loves you the more because of your—your difficulties. What we must talk about, you know, is Jerry. I’d really forgotten all about him.” “Yes, I had, too.” Alix did not raise her eyes. “What is there to say of him?” Giles, his hands in his pockets, gazed down at her. “He hasn’t forgotten you.” “I hope he soon may learn to,” said Alix. “But, Alix, Jerry is sticking to you,” Giles protested. “Jerry is all right. I’m very pleased about him. I thought it probable he wasn’t good enough for you and now I find he is.” “I am quite sure he is good enough. That is not the question,” said Alix. She sat there, leaning slightly against her cushion, her hands folded in her lap, and looked into the fire. “I need not think of Jerry now. I have only one person to think about, and that is my mother. I must go back to her at once. To-morrow, Giles.” “But surely you’re not going to chuck Jerry!” cried Giles. For a moment, at this, Alix raised her eyes to his, and it was as if in their dim surprise he read a reproach; the reproach of a serious race who saw facts as they were. There was no humility or confusion in Alix. She would not say to him that it was she who was not good enough for Jerry; but certain facts were there and her glance told him that he did not help her by pretending not to see them. “Dear Jerry,” was what she said and she then looked back at the fire. “I am sorry if he is to be made sad. But it will not be for long. He will get over it,” said Alix, and her voice was almost the voice of madame Vervier and of Lady Mary. “He is so young. And he must come to see that with objections on both sides what he hoped for is impossible.” Giles now came and sank down on the other end of the sofa. He had not been pretending. He saw the facts quite as clearly as Alix could ask him to do; but what it really came to was that his race, he believed with all his heart, saw further and more important facts than the French did. “You know,” he said, while Alix continued to gaze at the fire, “I don’t believe you are looking at it in the right way. You’re looking at it as—as his mother does, as your mother would, from the point of view of convention. Why impossible since you care for him?” “Because it would not be happy,” said Alix, who felt, evidently, no uncertainty. “It would have been an unsuitable marriage before, when mine were the only objections; it is much less suitable now. Such a marriage would make his mother very unhappy. I do not believe it could make my mother happy either. We do not think of marriage, we French people, as you do. What you think wrong, we think right; convention, suitability is right for us. We are not romantic in your English way.”