“Très belle,” said Giles, drawing away a little.
“Sa fille ne sera jamais aussi belle,” whispered madame Dumont. “She need not fear her. What fate more pitiful for a beautiful woman than to find a rival in her daughter!”
“Nothing of that sort could ever happen between Alix and her mother,” said Giles angrily.
“Nothing of that sort. Précisément. You, a young man, and I, an old woman, see eye to eye when it comes to such a comparison,” madame Dumont disconcertingly concurred. “La petite Alix is not of a type to seduce. She has distinction; an air of race; mais elle n’est pas séduisante!—Tandis que la mère!”—and madame Dumont, with eye and hand uplifted, took Heaven to witness of her appreciation.
“That’s not what I mean at all. You quite misunderstand me,” said Giles, more angrily.
“Vous dites, monsieur?” said madame Dumont, fixing a very shrewd, sharp eye upon him as if she suddenly discerned new aspects of an obvious case. “It is the daughter you admire?”
Madame Collet reappeared and Giles maintained a hostile silence. To attempt to enlighten madame Dumont would be futile.
“It is time for your repos, Maman,” said madame Collet. “She is so old, so very old, monsieur,” she added, casting a glance of proud possessorship upon Giles. “Only by constant care do we keep her with us. And now it is time for the little afternoon nap.”
The old lady, muttering something about chicory and hygiène, signified her readiness to withdraw and Giles assisted her daughter in hoisting her upon her feet. But for all her decrepitude she was still not lacking in female sensitiveness and had time, it was evident, to make her reflections upon something unflattering in the attitude of the young Englishman, for, before she disappeared into the house, she bade him farewell with an extreme and sudden haughtiness.
Alix soon came down after that and they went away.