My first intimation of what Frascatoni was about came from my wife. Not words, of course, but actions. She abruptly ceased quarreling, rebuking, reproaching, scoffing. She soothed, sympathized, agreed. She became as sweet as she had formerly been. I was puzzled, and waited for light. It came with her next move. She began to talk of going back to Europe, to deplore that scandalmongers would not let her. She began to chaff me on my love of a bachelor’s life, on my dislike of married life. She said with reproachful, yet smiling gentleness, that I made her feel ashamed to stay on.
“Admit,” said she, “that you’d be better pleased if I were in Guinea.”
“You oughtn’t have given me so many years of freedom,” said I.
“You’d have been glad if I had gone on and gotten a divorce,” pursued she.
My drowsing soul startled and listened. “I was willing that you should do as you liked,” said I. “Divorce is a matter of more importance to the woman than to the man—just as marriage is.”
“And it’s a sensible thing, too—isn’t it?”
“Very,” said I.
“Godfrey, would you honestly be willing?”
“I’d not lay a straw in your way.”
“What nonsense we’re talking!” cried she, with a nervous laugh. “And yet there’s no denying that we don’t get on together. I see how trying it is to you to have me about.”