“My late wife is threatening not to release me,” said I.
He smiled curiously. “But she hasn’t done it yet?”
“Not yet,” replied I. “At least not up to eleven o’clock this morning, New York time.”
“I don’t think she will,” said he.
“Why?” demanded I.
“You won’t let her, for one reason,” replied he.
“You’re as fond of your freedom as I am. And nothing on earth could induce me to marry again. When women—English women—look at me I see them fairly twitching to get me where they can make free use of me. Yes—marriage has gone the way of everything else. Business—finance—politics—religion—they’ve all degenerated into so many means of graft. And art’s going the same way. And marriage—it’s the woman’s great and only graft. Our women look at marriage in two ways—how much can be got out of it, living with the man; how much will it net as alimony.”
“You seemed rather positive that my late wife would not hold on to me?” persisted I.
He eyed me sharply. “You really wish to be free?”
“I am determined to be free.”