“I see,” she said. “On Uncle Philip’s death, Stanier, everything will be mine. According to those letters, that is.”
He nodded. “Yes, on the one condition, of course, that you and I are wife and husband.”
She looked at him again with a smile breaking through her gravity.
“I promised that before I knew,” she said. “And now that I know that Stanier will be mine, instead of believing that my choice forfeited it, it isn’t very likely that I shall change my mind.”
“There’s something else, you know, too,” he said. “You’re marrying....”
She interrupted. “I’m marrying Colin,” she said. “But as regard you. Is it horrible for you? Ah ... I’ve been thinking of myself only. Stanier and myself.”
She moved away from him and walked to the end of the room, where, pushing the blind aside, she looked out on to the terrace where they had stood this evening. As clearly as if she spoke her thoughts aloud, Colin knew what was the debate within her. It lasted but a moment.
“Colin, if—if you hate it,” she said, “tear that letter up. I’ve got you, and I would sooner lose Stanier than let you be hurt. Tear it up! Let Raymond have Stanier so long as I don’t go with it.... Oh, my dear, is it the same me, who so few weeks ago chose Raymond, and who so few hours ago wondered if I could give up Stanier, even though to get it implied marrying him? And now, nothing whatever matters but you.”
Instantly Colin felt within himself that irritation which love invariably produced in him. Just so had his father’s affection, except in so far as it was fruitful of material benefits, fatigued and annoyed him, and this proposal of Violet’s, under the same monstrous impulsion, promised, in so far from being fruitful, to prove itself some scorching or freezing wind which would wither and blast all that he most desired. But, bridling his irritation, he laughed.
“That wouldn’t suit me at all,” he said, “and besides, Vi, how about honour? Stanier will be legally and rightfully yours. How on earth could I consent to the suppression of this? But lest you should think me too much of an angel—father asked me one day how my wings were getting on—I tell you quite frankly that it will be sweet as honey to send Raymond packing. My adoring you doesn’t prevent my hating him. And as for what is called irregularity in birth, who on earth cares? I don’t. I’m a Stanier all right. Look at half the dukes in England, where do they spring from? Actresses, flower-girls, the light loves of disreputable kings. Who cares? And, besides, my case is different: my father married my mother.”