“Does Major Winton know?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say to it?”
“Say? What can anyone say? From your point of view, or his, it's rotten, of course. But in her position, anything's rotten.”
At that encouraging word, the flood-gates gave way in Lady Summerhay, and she poured forth a stream of words.
“Oh, my dear, can't you pull up? I've seen so many of these affairs go wrong. It really is not for nothing that law and conventions are what they are—believe me! Really, Bryan, experience does show that the pressure's too great. It's only once in a way—very exceptional people, very exceptional circumstances. You mayn't think now it'll hamper you, but you'll find it will—most fearfully. It's not as if you were a writer or an artist, who can take his work where he likes and live in a desert if he wants. You've got to do yours in London, your whole career is bound up with society. Do think, before you go butting up against it! It's all very well to say it's no affair of anyone's, but you'll find it is, Bryan. And then, can you—can you possibly make her happy in the long-run?”
She stopped at the expression on his face. It was as if he were saying: “I have left your world. Talk to your fellows; all this is nothing to me.”
“Look here, Mother: you don't seem to understand. I'm devoted—devoted so that there's nothing else for me.”
“How long will that last, Bryan? You mean bewitched.”
Summerhay said, with passion: