"That he makes love to me? I'm fond of him . . . just as I'm fond of Aunt Constance."
"That you love him. There, you can't deny it. You love him."
"I do not love him," she lied.
"Yes, you do, you love him."
"I do not love him."
"Yes, you do."
"Very well, then, I do!" she said, curtly. "I love him. What then?"
"Marianne . . ."
"I like being with him, like talking to him, cycling with him, motoring with him: what then? There's no harm in it; and . . . I love Aunt Constance too."
"Marianne, I've warned you," he said, sadly. "Be sensible."
"Yes," she answered. "But you be sensible also."
"How do you mean?"
"Be sensible with Eduard! Control your temper, Henri! It can only make things worse, if you don't control your temper."
"I will control myself!" he promised, clenching his fists as he spoke.
"Henri . . ."
"I hate the bounder . . . I could murder him, wring his neck."
"Henri, be quiet, I hear Papa coming."
