“Divorce me? You? You?”
“You can prove nothing against me, Clara, and I shall deny everything, whereas I can prove all against you. This poor lad will have to marry you. Really I am sorry for him, for what chance had he against you? I do not like to see one of my name made ridiculous, and it will ruin him.”
“He shall not marry me,” she answered fiercely. “I love him too well.”
“You can settle that as you like between you. Go back to your reverend parent’s house if you choose, and take to religion. You will be an ornament to any Deanery. Or if you do not choose—” and with a dim, expressive gesture, he waved his hand towards the countless lights of London that glimmered beneath them.
She thought a while, leaning on the back of a chair and breathing heavily. Then that elementary courage of hers flared up, and she said:
“George, you want to be free from me. You noticed the beginning of my folly and sent us abroad together; it was all another plot—I quite understand. Now, life is uncertain, and you have made mine very miserable. If anything should chance to happen to me—soon, would there be any scandal? I ask it, not for my own sake, but for that of my old father, and my sisters and their children.”
“No,” he replied slowly. “In that sad and improbable event there would be no scandal. Only foolish birds foul their own nests unless they are driven to it.”
Again she was silent, then drew back from him and said:
“Thank you, I do not think there is anything to add. Go away, please.”
“Clara,” he answered, in his cold, deliberate voice, “you are worn out—naturally. Well, you want sleep, it will be a good friend to you to-night. But remember, that chloral you are so fond of is dangerous stuff; take enough if you like, but not too much!”