"Surely you'll not be so wicked as to ruin our lives," he went on, secretly, she knew, rather enjoying himself, "because of an old-fashioned, obsolete prejudice? What's divorce nowadays? A mere nothing."
"I know," she said wearily, for she felt suddenly very tired. "Most people think so, but I don't."
"But you don't mean to say that you want a man who no longer loves you?"
It was nearly six o'clock, and the room was lighted only by firelight. In the charitable gloom Walbridge looked very handsome, and the attitude he instinctively struck was not unbeautiful theoretically. She looked at him for a moment.
"My dear Ferdie," she said at last, "I can't talk any more now because Hermy and Billy and Mr. Peter Gaskell-Walker are dining with us at half-past seven, and I've several things to see to. And as to your loving me, you know perfectly well that you've not loved me for nearly thirty years."
He was too utterly baffled to find a word in reply, and by the time he could speak she had left the room.
As he dressed for dinner, having unsuccessfully tried to get into her room, he reflected with sincere self-pity that it was small wonder he had fallen in love with a beautiful, sympathetic woman like Clara. Violet was plainly not quite sane. He gave a vicious jerk to his tie as he reached this point.
"Why, damn it all," he muttered, "she doesn't seem to care a hang!"