"I do." It seemed to Aliette as though her lover were indeed only a boy. "I know her a thousand times better than you ever will. Mostly because I'm a woman; and a little, perhaps, because I love her son. She would hate me. And--and she'd be right."
"Nobody could hate you," he broke in. "Nobody who knew the fineness of you."
"I'm not fine." She put away the joy of his words. "I'm just a very ordinary person. There's nothing fine in me--except perhaps my love for you. And, for your sake, I mustn't let that love blind me to the truth. Can't you see what my freedom--however I won it--would mean to your mother?"
She waited for him to answer; but he sat obstinately silent--his hands clasped about his knees, his eyes on her face. She went on:
"Your mother doesn't believe in divorce. It's against her principles, her religion."
"But surely, if he lets you divorce him----"
"I could never do that. Not now. It would be just--just hypocrisy. And we can't hurt your mother. We mustn't. I don't care about myself. If I thought it were for your happiness, I'd run away with you to-night. But I'm afraid for your career. And I do care, terribly, about making her suffer. Think of the fight she's put up, all her life, against this very thing; and then, try to think what it will mean to her, to both of you, if you, her son, her only son----"
He interrupted violently.
"She would have no right, no earthly right to interfere."
"Oh, don't, don't speak like that about her." There were tears, tears of real sorrow, in Aliette's eyes. "I can't bear it. I--I can't bear to think of coming between you. It isn't fair. She's loved you all her life. You're everything in the world to her. And then--then--oh! can't you understand----"