He is a medium to her, she provokes from him her own answer.

So she throws herself into a last great love for her son, a final and fatal devotion, that which would have been the richness and strength of her husband and is poison to her boy.

The husband, irresolute, never accepting his own higher responsibility, bows and accepts.

And the fatal round of introversion and "complex" starts once more.

If man will never accept his own ultimate being, his final aloneness, and his last responsibility for life, then he must expect woman to dash from disaster to disaster, rootless and uncontrolled.
"_On revient toujours a son premier amour._" It sounds like a cynicism to-day.