“But—he’s not suitable—” faltered Claudine.
“I knew you’d say that! You’ll tell me it’s disgraceful to marry a man ‘beneath’ me. Well, I don’t think he is, in any way. You’ll say—”
“If you’re going to take my part as well as your own, Andrée, there’s not much use in going on. I’m not so unsympathetic—or so narrow as you think.... I shouldn’t have opposed you. I should only have asked you to wait a little—”
“Because you think I’d change?”
“Only until I felt you were sure.”
“I am sure! I love Al! You don’t know how I feel about him. He’s so dear and—”
“Hush, Andrée!” she interrupted, almost sternly. There was a faint flush on her cheeks; this unrestraint, this vehemence, caused her a sort of shame. She had suddenly a thousand things to say—“Think if there should be children”—“Think of the personal habits of a man of his class”—And not one of them could she utter. Her almost morbid modesty, her long habit of restraint, forbade her. She grew desperate; she could urge nothing but her own love.
“Andrée,” she said, “I will tell you what I have never told anyone else in the world. I love you more than my other children! I always have. I—I think I don’t really love anyone else. You are all my life. You are all I care to live for. If you knew ...! When you were a baby.... Oh, Andrée! I used to sit watching you when you were asleep ... you were so pretty—and so strange.... It—made me turn away from God—I loved you so much more.... If you do this....”
“Oh, how cruel you are!” cried Andrée. “And how—unfair! How can you want me to spoil all my life and give up all my happiness, if you love me? How can you not let me alone? Don’t you see—don’t you understand—how I love him?”
“Andrée, that love is nothing to mine—I know!”