We sat down. Elodie asked:
"Who is that lady?"
I explained as best I could. "She is the daughter of an English nobleman, whence her title. The way to address her is 'Lady Auriol.' She did lots of work during the war, work of hospital organization in France, and now she is still working for France. I have known her since she was three years old; so she is a very great friend of mine."
Her eyes wandered to the bit of red thatched head and the gleam of the crown of a white hat just visible over the balustrade.
"She appears also to be a great friend of André."
"The General met many charming ladies during his stay in England," I lied cheerfully.
"Which means," she said with a toss of her head and an ironical smile, "that the General behaved like a real--who was it, Horace, who loved women so much? Ah oui--like a real Don Juan." She wagged her plump forefinger. "Oh no, I know my André."
"I could tell you stories--" said I.
"Which would not be true."
She laughed in a forced way--and her eyes again sought the tops of the couple promenading in the sunshine. She resumed her catechism.