“What do you intend to do?”
“I’ve written to Al, to ask him to—for a divorce.”
“Oh!” cried her mother. “Why did you do that?”
“What else could I do? You didn’t think I wanted a nasty underhand intrigue, did you, Mother? I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t even kiss Francis until I was free from Al. I’m not that sort.”
“What did Alfred say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t answer. But I know he’ll do it. He’s always said he’d never try to hold me if I wanted to be free.”
“I think you ought to see him, my child.”
“Why?”
Claudine had no intention of telling her true reason.
“It’s the best and frankest way to do,” she said. “If you like, I will write to him and ask him to come here. I wish you would see him—for my sake, Andrée.”