had avoided mentioning. "I shan't marry Sabine," he said. "I'll find some one. I haven't found her yet."
"Sabine is excellent. She is well brought up. . . . She is rich. She is one of the few American women we know who is mondaine. I want you to marry an American. We need new blood. She knows her way about. She dresses superbly. . . . She will make an excellent hostess. She will be at home everywhere."
"But I am not in love with her," he said smiling.
For an instant a glint of hard anger appeared in her eyes. "You are old enough . . . or at least wise enough not to be romantic."
"It is not a question of romance, Mama. . . . It is more a question of necessity. I should prefer to be faithful to my wife."
At this speech, she clucked her tongue, and crushed out the end of her cigarette. "Ça ne marche pas," she observed coldly. "You can't expect me to believe such nonsense."
Thérèse was by no means innocent. She had lived in the world, always. She knew what things went on about her and, being Levantine and French, she expected even less than most women of experience. She understood that there were such things as mistresses and that most men of her world were not unacquainted with them; so she could not for a moment have supposed that her son, smiling at her in his knowing fashion, possessed a purity that was virginal. Indeed, it might be said that she knew more of his adventures than he ever supposed. Once she had scandalized Mrs. Champion by saying, "My son has an intrigue with the wife of one of my best friends in Paris. It puts me in a most uncomfortable position."
Nevertheless she had said this in a tone that implied satisfaction; the mistress of her son was, at least, a lady and not a woman of the streets. There was only one thing (she was accustomed to say) that she regarded as unforgivable; it was that he should make a fool of himself or waste great sums of money on any woman. And this, she must have known, was extremely unlikely.
