‘Certainly to leave you. That was the sole object of my application. Aren’t you delighted to hear it? We lead a cat-and-dog life as things are at present, and the sooner we are separated the better.’
‘But the children—and me!’ she gasps, with a face of chalky whiteness.
‘Oh, don’t be afraid! you will be provided for.’
‘But if you should be ill?’ suggests the woman fearfully.
‘Then I shall die, perhaps, and so much the better. You have not made my life such a heaven to me that I shall lose much by its resignation.’
Then she falls upon his neck, weeping.
‘Oh, Roland, Roland! do not speak to me like that.’
But he pushes her from him. He has had no dinner, and that is a trial that never improves the masculine temper.
‘Don’t make a fool of yourself!’ he says roughly.