“If you love me ... then we can go our way ... we need not think of any of the others.”
“Oh, it’s not so easy as that, my dear.” She had never before been so conscious of his presence, of that strange sense of warmth and charm which he seemed to impose on everything about him.
“I do have to think of the others,” she said. “Not my husband.... I don’t think he even cares so long as the world knows nothing. But there’s Sybil.... I can’t make a fool of myself on account of Sybil.”
She saw quickly that she had used the wrong phrase, that she had hurt him; striking without intention at the fear which he sometimes had that she thought him a common, vulgar Irish politician.
“Do you think that this thing between us ... might be called ‘making a fool of yourself’?” he asked with a faint shade of bitterness.
“No ... you know me better than that.... You know I was thinking only of myself ... as a middle-aged woman with a daughter ready to be married.”
“But she will be married ... soon ... surely. Young de Cyon isn’t the sort who waits.”
“Yes ... that’s true ... but even then.” She turned quickly. “What do you want me to do?... Do you want me to be your mistress?”
“I want you for my own.... I want you to marry me.”
“Do you want me as much as that?”