"I believe he still loves you."
"Please—"
"I am sure of it. And I know how to give him back to you."
Half reclining on the cushions, she sat up, her cheeks flaming, her eyes shining with fever.
"I beg of you to give up that idea. He has wrecked his home. It was his affair to rebuild it. And now—"
"Now."
She allowed herself to fall back.
"It is too late," she said.
Philippe, ever eager to serve her, was painfully affected by this evidence of her state of disenchantment, and changed the conversation, which was painful to her.
"What are your plans? Shall you go to Provence into the sunshine?"