John Temple looked at her quickly.
“My bait takes, I see,” went on Kathleen Weir, coolly. “Now, you can’t get a divorce from me; I’ve been too careful for that; perhaps too cold, for a burnt child dreads the fire; or maybe I was too prudent to run the risk of losing my allowance. No, you can not get a divorce from me; now, the question is, can I get one from you?”
John Temple was silent; he looked down, he moved his hands impatiently.
“By the wonderful justice which the male law-givers deal out to women, I am perfectly aware that you could run away with anyone; with a dozen if you had a mind to, and I could get no redress unless you had committed some act, or acts, of cruelty, to which I could swear. Now, to be free, I am ready to swear falsely; I am ready to swear that you tore handfuls of hair out of my head, and I have a false tress or two out of which you can tear them—if you will make it worth my while.”
“What do you mean?”
“My friend John, you are a rich man now, and I’ve no doubt will be ready to pay handsomely for your liberty. You wish, I suppose, to be free of me, and be able to marry someone else?”
“Some months ago,” answered John Temple, with quick emotion, “I would have given anything to have been so—now it is too late.”
“Why is it too late?”
“It is useless to tell you; to tell you how our miserable marriage spoilt a young life.”
“But is it spoilt? And even if it is, I think you should show a little consideration for me. I am tired of leading the life I lead; I want someone to care a little for me. I wish, in fact, to be divorced from you.”