“But not at all, Giles,” said Alix, and there was a touch of gay malice in her smile. “How could I feel that when you are here?”
“Will cease to exist, as far as you are concerned, once I’m gone,” Giles amended.
“France has never existed for you at all,” Alix remarked, though her smile did not become less kind.
“I beg your pardon, young woman, it existed for me from the moment I set eyes on you,” said Giles gloomily, “to say nothing of the year I fought over here.”
Alix then did a very unexpected thing. She advanced into the centre of the room and clasped her hands around his arm and looked into his face. “Do not be heavy with me, Giles,” she said, “when I am so happy.”
He looked down at her fondly and sadly. “I suppose it’s because I see you happy, for the first time, that I feel heavy.”
“But why, Giles? Why? Must not a child be happy at finding herself again with her mother; in her own country? Would you not be happy in such a case? Were you not happy when you returned to your home and to your mother after the war?”
“That’s not quite the same,” Giles objected. “After all, you’ve not been in daily peril of your life. Of course you’re happy. But try not to show me, too plainly, how little we all mean to you. Try not to show me how quickly you’ll forget all about us when I’m gone.”
“But I should never forget you, Giles, even if I never saw you again!” said Alix, holding his arm and looking into his face.
Madame Vervier, as they stood thus, passed along the corridor and paused and looked in at them; looked, Giles felt, with surprise. Alix smiled round at her. “He thinks I do not care for England any longer, Maman, or for him, because I am so happy to be back in France with you,” she said.