He turned on her bluntly, almost rudely. "Yes, the whole thing's wrong. It's wrong of me to let you come here. Wrong of me to love you." Then, his reserve breaking down: "I've tried to reason this thing out till I've grown nearly mad with it. I've always loved my profession; always thought that a lawyer's first duty was to obey the law. But now, loving you, the law doesn't seem to count. Only you count. You and your happiness. It's only you I'm thinking of, not my--my rotten career." Once again he fell on his knees to her, protesting, incoherent; once again he took her in his arms; and kissed her, very tenderly, on her eyes, on her half-closed lips. His kisses weakened her. "Ronnie," she whispered. "My Ronnie, I love you so." Her whisper kindled him again to passion. "Aliette," he said hoarsely, "Aliette, I can't give you up. I can't live without you." For a moment she yielded herself; for a moment her lips, her hands, her whole body clung to their happiness; for a moment all her fears, all her self-torturings were stifled. Then she broke from him; and her eyes grew resolute. "Ronnie, there's some one whom neither of us has considered--your mother." "The old cannot stand between the young and their happiness." His eyes, too, were resolute. "We're still young, you and I. We've all our lives to live. And besides"--he weakened,--"the mater likes you." "She'd hate me if I didn't make you give me up." "You don't know her, dear." "I do." It seemed to Aliette as though her lover were indeed only a boy. "I know her a thousand times better than you ever will. Mostly because I'm a woman; and a little, perhaps, because I love her son. She _would_ hate me. And--and she'd be right." "Nobody could hate you," he broke in. "Nobody who knew the fineness of you." "I'm not fine." She put away the joy of his words. "I'm just a very ordinary person. There's nothing fine in me--except perhaps my love for you. And, for your sake, I mustn't let that love blind me to the truth. Can't you see what my freedom--however I won it--would mean to your mother?" She waited for him to answer; but he sat obstinately silent--his hands clasped about his knees, his eyes on her face. She went on: "Your mother doesn't believe in divorce. It's against her principles, her religion." "But surely, if he lets you divorce him----" "I could never do that. Not now. It would be just--just hypocrisy. And we can't hurt your mother. We mustn't. I don't care about myself. If I thought it were for your happiness, I'd run away with you to-night. But I'm afraid for your career. And I do care, terribly, about making _her_ suffer. Think of the fight she's put up, all her life, against this very thing; and then, try to think what it will mean to her, to both of you, if _you_, her son, her only son----" He interrupted violently. "She would have no right, no earthly right to interfere."