Late that same evening, Aliette and her lover sat alone in the familiar drawing-room among the familiar things--the jade idols, the Toby mugs, the Spanish velvets, and the Venetian brocades which Julia Cavendish had collected for her delight. Ever since their hasty dinner--most of the staff were still at Daffadillies--Ronnie had been urging her decision. Ever since dinner, haggard, she had been playing for time.
"It was my mother's wish," he said. "Let's prove the will; publish the book; take the consequences. Anything's worth while--if only he'll divorce you."
"Is it?" Dully, the woman's mind was looking for a loophole. "Is it worth while to ruin three lives?"
"Three?"
"Yes, dear. Yours--and mine ... and--and Hector's,"
"Hector!" The rage in Ronnie's voice terrified her, as it had been terrifying her all the evening. "We needn't consider him. He hasn't considered us. There would have been no need for all this if he'd been reasonable; if he'd brought his action for divorce when I asked him to."
"There are others we ought to consider, too." Aliette's hand, as she fondled her lover's rigid arm, was tremulous. "Mollie, James, my parents. They'll all suffer if you--if we carry this thing through."
"They must look after themselves. They've done nothing to help us. Don't let's discuss the matter further. Believe me, it's the only way to get what we want."
"But Sir Peter said----"
"Sir Peter's only a solicitor. Even if that blackguard did file his petition, the will and the book would have to be published."