“You don’t know what she would see; nor do I,” said André. “She thinks she hates me. You needn’t tell me that. But I am not ignorant in women’s hearts. Hate may be the best of beginnings. The struggle may be a little longer;—I like struggles, let me tell you; the longer they last the sweeter is the surrender at the end.—And I have every reason to believe that to begin with hate is often to end with a more complete surrender.” As André gave him this information Giles saw Alix emerge upon the verandah of Les Chardonnerets. She could not hear their voices, but their confrontation she must remark. Seeing Giles’s eyes fixed, André turned his head and looked for a moment, also. Then he glanced back at Giles. “Plead your Jerry’s cause,” he said. “_Je vous cède le pas._” He turned on his heel. “If you fail, I shall plead mine.” Giles was aware, as Alix approached him, that he must seem to stare stupidly. “I could gain her mother’s consent.” Of all the brazen words that André had uttered, it was these that rang most brazenly in his ear. Was it true? Was it possible? If Alix already loved him? Could he be sure of his Alix were the hideous complicity of events thus to disclose itself? He could have fallen at her feet, in tears, clasping her and supplicating her not to be abased. But, as she approached him, silent, he muttered a trivial word and they turned to walk along the cliff-path, while the clouds piled themselves higher in the blue sky and the wind blew yet more strongly from the sea. Alix did not say a word. She held her soft hat at her side and the wind blew back her hair. Over her white dress a long white woollen cloak was knotted at her throat, and it, too, blew back from her as she walked. She looked before her with the high, majestic look he had already noted on her face in moments of great emotion. “Alix,” said Giles in a low voice. They had gone for a long way in silence. The sea now was green beneath them. The sky was a wild grey and all the grass silver as the wind blew it towards their feet. He did not know what he was going to say. He did not look at her. But he saw that she turned her face towards him. A clue then came. “Alix, do you remember, long ago, you promised me that you would never tell me a lie?” he said. Not unclosing her lips she nodded. He had glanced at her and met her eyes, but he could not read her look. “Well”—he heard that his voice trembled and he was suddenly afraid that he should not get far without crying—“Jerry, before I left Oxford, showed me a letter he had from you. It troubled him; badly; but he couldn’t know how it troubled me. You said you could never marry him because you now loved someone else. Was that true, Alix?” She turned away her head and looked before her; and again she did not speak. “Please tell me. Was it true? Do you love someone else, Alix?” Giles pleaded.