“She left him,” said Giles after a moment and he felt his voice harden towards Toppie. “Continue your cross-examination, pray.”
“But you know so much, so surprisingly much, Giles. How can I help asking? How can I help feeling interest in Alix’s mother, in Owen’s friend? It isn’t cross-examination. It is unkind of you to say that. Horribly unkind.”
“I don’t mean to be unkind. It’s you who are unkind, I think. Ask any questions you like.”
“How long after her first husband’s death did she marry monsieur Vervier? May I ask that?”
“Certainly you may,” said Giles. His bitterness carried him so far. Then he paused, aghast. He had known that to Toppie Alix could never have spoken of her mother’s misfortune as frankly as she had to him. He had forgotten the first misfortune. He was aghast; but while he made his pause he determined that there should be no half-measure here. Toppie should not again accuse him of double-dealing. “Didn’t Alix ever tell you that her mother was divorced?” he demanded, and he heard how hard and dry was his voice.
For a moment Toppie said nothing. Then she spoke, softly, as if in all sincerity she could not believe what she heard. Disastrous, indeed, was the time for such a hearing. “What did you say, Giles?”
“Alix told me, the day I brought her here last winter, that her father and mother had been divorced. If she didn’t tell you, that was, no doubt, because she took it for granted that I would.”
And again came Toppie’s dire silence. “And why didn’t you?”
“Why should I? It was none of our affair.”
“Isn’t Alix our affair?”