“Would you?” said Alix.
It was nothing; it was everything. It revealed nothing, yet it might conceal anything.
“Yes: I would, mademoiselle Alix,” said André, laughing a little as he stood, leaning, his arms folded, against the window. “Indeed, I would.”
Giles, watching the confrontation, sick with dread and fury, knew himself as much baffled as André.
Alix showed nothing to him, too; or she showed everything. Just as one chose to take it. “Here is our coffee,” she said. “And here is Maman.”
Lovely in her white, the white rose, the jasmine, madame Vervier bent her forehead to Alix’s kiss and something in the daughter’s eyes made Giles think of a sword in the hand of an avenging, or protecting, angel.
André bowed over his hostess’s hand.
“Giles and I are to have a long walk, Maman,” said Alix, going to her place.
“You will be caught in the rain,” said André. “Have you noticed the sky? It is threatening.”
“But see the sunlight,” said madame Vervier, pouring out the coffee. “It will be a beautiful morning of great clouds and sunlight. There is nothing I love better.”