“Mercy, no, child!” said Claudine. She shrank at once from any invasion of her reserve; her dignity compelled her to maintain her aloofness, her air of slightly inhuman tranquillity.
But Andrée was insistent.
“But I do wish you’d tell me one thing!” she said. “Did you really mean to marry Cousin Lance, and were you parted by something?”
“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” asked her mother, frowning. “No one ever thought of such a thing.”
“Edna said she thought so.... Mother, I wish I knew you better!”
Claudine was startled and touched.
“My dear!” she cried. “But don’t you ...?”
She stopped.
“After all,” she went on. “I think it is better just to love people, and not to trouble about trying to know or to understand them.”
They had reached a little summer-house built out on a rock over a deep pool in a rocky basin. It had not at all the sinister aspect of that other pool; this was sunny, open and dark blue, with wild flowers growing about it, and ferns. From where they sat, they could see the line of mountains beyond. Andrée didn’t like mountains; the sombre and majestic environment exasperated her restless soul. She sighed, but grew quiet looking at her mother’s rapt face. She was drawing strength and assuagement from the hills. Poor mother, with her philosophers and her scenery! A phantom existence, Andrée reflected.