“How can you tell what I should think? Father, I love her better than anything in the world.”
Jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness:
“Better than your mother, Jon?”
From the boy's face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the stress and struggle he was going through.
“I don't know,” he burst out, “I don't know! But to give Fleur up for nothing—for something I don't understand, for something that I don't believe can really matter half so much, will make me—make me....”
“Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier—yes. But that's better than going on with this.”
“I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you; why don't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know anything—we wouldn't let it make any difference. It'll only make us both love you and Mother all the more.”
Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth.
“Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you; I shan't last much longer.”
“Why not? It isn't fair to—Why not?”