“But that’s impossible!” remonstrated she.
“Be calm, my dear. I don’t ask you to lead my kind of life.”
“Then—what do you propose?” ventured she.
I shrugged my shoulders and settled myself more comfortably in her luxurious motor. I gazed with absorbed interest at the bunch of orchids in the flower-holder.
“I don’t see how we can continue neither free nor bound,” pursued she.
“Whatever you like,” said I. “Only—no fashionable capering for me.”
“Do you want me to get a divorce, Godfrey?” said she.
“I want you to be happy,” said I. “Divorce has no terrors for me. Aren’t we practically divorced already?”
“That’s true,” said she. “We never did have much in common.” Then she reddened—for, she could not quite forget those first days of our married life, before I got the money to feed her ambition. “You make me feel as if you were a—no, not a stranger, but only a friend.”
“And we are friends,” said I heartily. “And always shall be.” For I was beginning to like her, to take the amiably indifferent outsider’s view of her, now that she was freeing me.