“I’m not sure which it is.”
Joan lit a cigarette and stretched herself among the cushions of the divan. “Well, what is it? Money?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not serious. Money troubles and poor health are about the only serious calamities.”
“No—it’s—Joan, I’ve been making an idiot of myself. I’ve lost my head over a married man.” The words came with a rush.
“But you practically confessed all that the other day. And I told you then what I thought. Either get rid of him straight off, or steady your head and let him hang about until you are sick of him.”
“But—you don’t understand. Of course you couldn’t. No one ever did understand another’s case.”
“I don’t think it’s that, my dear. When one is in love, he or she thinks it’s a peculiar case. And the stronger his or her imagination, the more peculiar seems the case. But when it’s submitted to an outsider, then it is looked at in the clear air, not in the fog of self-delusion. And how it does shrink!”
“I want him and he wants me,” said Emily doggedly. “It may be commonplace and ridiculous, but it’s the fact.”
“Do you think it would last long enough to enable him to get a divorce? If so, he can do that. There’s nothing easier nowadays than divorce. And what a dreadful blow to intrigue that has been! It doesn’t leave either party a leg to stand on. Just say to him: ‘Yes, I love you. You say you love me. Go and get a divorce and then perhaps I’ll marry you. But if not, you’ll at least be free from daily contact with the wife you say or intimate that you loathe.’ It’s perfectly simple. The chances are you’ll never see him again, and you can have a laugh at yourself, and can congratulate yourself on a narrow escape.”