“Not if you are a young French girl; no; you may not,” said Giles, after a moment’s reflection. “Isn’t that just the great difference between you and us? We think for ourselves; but you, if you are a girl, may only think for yourself when you are married.”
“I like England better in that,” said Alix. “One should have a voice.”
“Perhaps your mother feels that you’ll learn to have a right to a voice by being in England.”
“I do not think so,” said Alix. “I do not think she believes in having a voice. That is another great difference. You believe that one learns to have a voice by being given freedom.”
“You can’t be free here, Alix; I see that for myself,” Giles said, looking at her and wondering how far her thought could follow. Already in such unexpected places it ran ahead of his own.
She raised her eyes to his. “You mean it is not safe, in France, for a girl to be free?”
“I’m afraid not. Not yet.”
“And what is our danger? Can you tell me that?”
Giles found an answer that he had only recently seen for himself: “The danger of growing up; in the wrong way; and too soon.”
“And Maman thinks that I run that danger by remaining with her? Why am I, then, different from other French girls whose mothers keep them with them? Why is she different from other French mothers? You need not tell me that she loves me. I see how it breaks her heart.” Alix’s voice trembled suddenly. “It breaks her heart to have to send me away. And why should it be so?”