She had delivered herself into his hands. As a woman of affairs she knew that one could not argue sensibly about what might have happened; and for what had happened she herself was responsible. In that he had been right.
“Would you marry her to-day?”
“How can I answer that? Probably she wouldn’t have me. Why should she? We’re both different now.... It’s been years.... She’s rich now ... successful ... famous. It isn’t the same.”
“People don’t change as much as that ... especially if they not seen each other. They are likely to keep a memory of that sort always fresh. It’s likely to grow strong instead of weak.”
“I’ve seen her since ... several times ... at her concerts.”
She saw, with her small piercing eyes, that she had uncovered a weak place in his armor ... a single chance on which to pin all her hopes.
“Have you talked to her?”
“No.”
She knew too that he was, in a sense, invincible. Sabine, so far as the world was concerned, made an excellent wife. She was worldly, distinguished, clever. So far as he was himself concerned, she gave him no trouble. She did not make scenes and she did not indulge in passionate outbreaks of jealousy. She did not even speak of the love which he sought outside his marriage ... the intrigues that were always taking place and now made him invincible in the face of her argument. She effaced herself, and as she had done once before, waited. But on that occasion she had waited for marriage, and had won. Now she was waiting for love, which was quite a different matter.
“If it’s an heir you want, I have one already.” He smiled. “He must be nearly twelve by now. Of course, he is the grandson of a janitor and the son of a music hall singer.... Still, he is an heir. We might legitimatize him.”