There was a stiff silence. If Bakkus had stuck to his intention of driving the conversation away from embarrassing personal questions, instead of being polite to Elodie, we should have been spared this freezing moment of self-consciousness. I asked Auriol whether she had had a pleasant journey, and we discussed the discomfort of trains. From then to the end of the meal the conversation halted. It was a relief to rise and fall into groups as we strolled down the terrace to coffee. I manoeuvred Elodie and Bakkus to the front leaving Auriol and Lackaday to follow. I sought a table at the far end, for coffee; but when I turned round, I discovered that the pair had descended by the mid-way flight of three or four steps to the grass-plotted and fountained terrace below. We sat down. Elodie asked: "Who is that lady?" I explained as best I could. "She is the daughter of an English nobleman, whence her title. The way to address her is 'Lady Auriol.' She did lots of work during the war, work of hospital organization in France, and now she is still working for France. I have known her since she was three years old; so she is a very great friend of mine." Her eyes wandered to the bit of red thatched head and the gleam of the crown of a white hat just visible over the balustrade. "She appears also to be a great friend of André." "The General met many charming ladies during his stay in England," I lied cheerfully. "Which means," she said with a toss of her head and an ironical smile, "that the General behaved like a real--who was it, Horace, who loved women so much? _Ah oui_--like a real Don Juan." She wagged her plump forefinger. "Oh no, I know my André." "I could tell you stories--" said I. "Which would not be true." She laughed in a forced way--and her eyes again sought the tops of the couple promenading in the sunshine. She resumed her catechism. "How old is she?" "I don't know exactly." "But since you have known her since she was three years old?" "If I began to count years at my time of life," said I, "I should die of fright." "She looks about thirty. Wouldn't you say so, Horace? It is droll that she has not married. Why?" "Before the war she was a great traveller. She has been by herself all over the world in all sorts of places among wild tribes and savages. She has been far too busy to think of marriage." Elodie looked incredulous. "One has always one's _moments perdus._" "One doesn't marry in odd moments," said I. "You and Horace are old bachelors who know nothing at all about it. Tell me. Is she very rich?"