“He told you about his mother?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t let that make any difference? You didn’t tell the others?”
“No.... Anything I had to say would have made no difference.”
“You were wise.... I think Thérèse is right, perhaps ... righter than any of us. She says that nature has a contempt for marriage certificates. Respectability can’t turn decay into life ... and Jean is alive.... So is his mother.”
“I know what you are driving at.”
“Certainly, my dear, you ought to know. You’ve suffered enough from it. And knowing his mother makes a difference. She’s no ordinary light woman, or even one who was weak enough to allow herself to be seduced. Once in fifty years there occurs a woman who can ... how shall I say it?... get away with a thing like that. You have to be a great woman to do it. I don’t think it’s made much difference in her life, chiefly because she’s a woman of discretion and excellent taste. But it might have made a difference in Jean’s life if he had encountered a mother less wise than yourself.”
“I don’t know whether I’m being wise or not. I believe in him and I want Sybil to escape.”
Olivia understood that for the first time they were discussing the thing which none of them ever mentioned, the thing which up to now Sabine had only touched upon by insinuation. Sabine had turned away and stood looking out of the window across the meadows where the distant trees danced in waves of heat.
“You spoiled my summer a bit, Olivia dear, by taking away my Irish friend from me.”