"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."
"And you?"
"I . . . am old. But there is no question about me. I am thinking . . . of you."
She looked at him and he suddenly understood her. He understood her, but he writhed under so much frankness and at seeing life so honestly:
"No, no, Constance," he mumbled.
"Think it over," she said, gently. "If you like . . . I will agree. Only . . . let us do it quietly, Henri, . . . let us do it, if possible, with something of affection for each other."
