"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?"
"I want you as much as that. . . . I can't bear the thought of sharing you . . . of having you belong to any one else."
"Oh . . . I've belonged to no one for a great many years now . . . not since Jack was born."
He went on, hurriedly, ardently. "It would change all my life. It would give me some reason to go on. . . . Save for you. . . . I'd chuck everything and go away. . . . I'm sick of it."
"And you want me for my own sake . . . not just because I'll help your career and give you an interest in life."
"For your own sake . . . nothing else, Olivia."
"You see, I ask because I've thought a great deal about it. I'm older than you, Michael. I seem young now. . . .
