GEORGE. You never were my wife. That is the terrible part of it. Our union—you make me say it, Olivia—has been unhallowed by the Church. Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we have been living in—living in—well, the point is, how does the Law stand? I imagine that Telworthy could get a—a divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that things like this can be happening to us.
OLIVIA (Joyfully). A divorce?
GEORGE. I—I imagine so.
OLIVIA. But then we could really get married, and we shouldn't be living in—living in—whatever we were living in before.
GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so calmly, as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as if there was nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if there was nothing wrong in our having lived together for years without having been married.
OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years with a bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived for five years with a good man whom I love.
GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't settle themselves as easily as that. We've been living together when you were Telworthy's wife. That's wrong.
OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked?
GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in perfect innocence—
OLIVIA. What Court?