Madame Vervier’s eyes were on him, hardly cogitative in their gaze, yet perhaps conjecturing something. She, doubtless, knew the names of the ladies of the chalet as well as they knew hers. She might infer the reasons for his flight. At all events, saying nothing, only maintaining her cool dim smile, she crossed the verandah and went into the house.
The evening meal at Les Chardonnerets was irregular in its hour and informal in its habit. Monsieur de Maubert and André de Valenbois only changed their flannels for light afternoon clothes, and Jules, when he came, did not change at all. Giles maintained his custom of evening dress, but he waited for some time alone in the drawing-room that evening, and even after André had joined him, exquisite in pale blues and greys, another five minutes passed before madame Vervier and Alix appeared.
Madame Vervier wore a dark silk dress, purple or red or russet—Giles in the waning light could not define the tint—fastening at the breast with a great old clasp of wrought gold. A fringed Empire scarf, purple, silver, and rose, fell about her beautiful bare arms; a high Empire comb was in her hair, and with her dark gaze she made Giles think of a lady drawn by Ingres.
She moved across to the window, her arm around Alix, and said, standing there and looking out: “La belle soirée!” It was a citron and ash sky above a golden sea.
“Maman, you will sing this evening,” said Alix. “Giles has not heard you sing.”
“Monsieur de Valenbois is the singer. I have no voice,” said madame Vervier.
“One needs no voice to sing the songs I mean,” said Alix. “Do you know our old songs of France, Giles?”
She looked round at him over her shoulder, palely shining in the white taffeta, and Giles, with a sinking and sickening as of an unimaginable yet palpable apprehension, saw that André de Valenbois’ appreciative eyes were upon her; upon her, rather than upon her lovely mother.
“Do you know the one beginning, ‘L’Amour de moi’ ” asked Alix.
Giles said he did not.