After their disagreement they sat for a time in the sort of strained silence that envelops a conflict between two people of extraordinary will. It was Thérèse who, with a sudden embarrassed cough, interrupted the stillness.
“This girl ...” she said. “I hope you’re not entangling yourself with her.”
Again he smiled and replied, “No, I haven’t entangled myself.”
“Because, it is dangerous with a girl of that sort.... She’s an American, you know, and not the sort one finds among musicians in Paris.... Autres choses.... She’s well brought up ... bourgeoisie, I should say, of the provinces.”
This time Richard laughed. “Not so bourgeoise as you might think.”
She leaned forward a little. “That’s just it!” she said. “She’s not easy to win.... She’s not the ordinary sort. She’s a woman of character ... of will.” Then she moved back, folding the chubby hands, glittering with rings, on the brief expanse of her black satin lap. “No, you’d best keep clear of her.... Whatever happens is without my approval.”
“She is interesting,” the son replied. “I’ve never seen a woman quite like her.”
This, it appeared, was the cause for new alarm. After regarding him for a time curiously, she murmured, “You can’t marry her, of course. She’s too inexperienced.... Sometimes, she’s gauche. But that’s not the chief thing.... If you married her, I don’t think I should object ... not very greatly.... It’s new blood ... healthy blood. But I advise you against thinking of such a thing. Wherever she goes, trouble will follow. She’s born, like most people with a touch of genius, under a curse.” He would have interrupted her here, but she checked him with a gesture of her fat hand. “She is certain to affect the lives of every one about her ... because, well, because the threads of our lives are hopelessly tangled. Oh, don’t think I’m talking nonsense or saying this to discourage you.... I know it.... I’m sure of it.... Marry her if you will, but don’t expect happiness to come of it. She would doubtless bear you a son ... a fine strong son because she is a fine cold animal. But don’t expect any satisfaction from her. She knows too well exactly where she is bound.”
During this long speech the son stood smoking silently with a shadow of the mocking smile on his lips. When she had finished he did not answer her but sat, with a thoughtful air, looking out into the garden which Thérèse this year had not bothered to have planted.
After a time she spoke again to say, “Surely you don’t fancy you could ever control her.... She’s a wild young filly.... No man will ever control her ... not for long.”