His eyes narrowed.
“You've made me over, that's true. You've made all of us over—the house as well. I am not happy unless I am with you. It used to make me happy to be with Lydia—and we were always together. But I—I don't care now—at least, I am not unhappy when we are apart. You've done it, Yvonne. You've made life worth living. You've made me see everything differently. You———”
She stood up, facing him. She appeared to be frightened.
“Are you trying to tell me that you are in love with me?” she demanded, and there was no longer mockery or raillery in her voice.
His eyes swept her from head to foot. He was deathly white.
“If you were not my father's wife I would say yes,” said he hoarsely.
“Do you know what it is that you have said?” she asked, suddenly putting her hands to her temples. Her eyes were glowing like coals.
He was silent.
“You are a dear boy, Frederic, but you are a foolish one,” she went on, the smile struggling back to her eyes.
“I suppose you'll send me away after—what I've said,” he muttered dully.