She blushed, but did not lose her composure; he did not see her blush. She had not yet thought of herself for a moment: she was thinking, had been thinking, after that wave of remorse and after holding Marianne that morning in her arms, only of him and Marianne, of their happiness, his and Marianne’s, even though she did not mention the girl’s name again, once she had told him that Marianne had refused Van Vreeswijck. She was thinking only of the two of them.... What would she do? She did not know. Her love, it is true, rose radiantly before her: her love, her new life; but she was not thinking of outward change. Life, the real life, was an inward thing; outwardly she was the mother of her son and would remain so....
“I?” she asked. “Nothing. I should simply stay as I am. Addie could be with us in turns.”
“It would distress him, Constance....”
“Perhaps, at first.... But he would soon understand.”
“Constance, tell me, why are you speaking like this?”
“In what way?”
“What do you really mean, Constance? What do you mean by my happiness?”
“Only what I say, Henri: that you may still be able to find your happiness.”
“You are frank,” he said, forcing himself to adopt her tone, though it was difficult for him to speak like that. “You are frank. I will also try to be frank. My happiness? You speak of my happiness?... I am too old to find that now.”
“No, you are not old. You are young.”