"And married him—after the divorce formalities?"
"Yes."
"And you really think that you'd have been willing to give up your life of luxury to become the wife of a man whose yearly earnings would hardly pay for your hats?"
"He would have earned more if I'd been with him."
"Perhaps a very little more. But double or treble would still have seemed poverty to you."
"I wouldn't have cared.... You think I love money and luxury, but I don't—it all means nothing to me, really. As for Geoffrey's money, it gets on my nerves—I hate it. Even now—in his chair all day long—he's making more of it—buying and selling shares and speculating and gambling and winning—yes, winning nine times out of ten. That's his way—he's always found winning the easiest job in the world.... Yet Terry can't even get the few paltry pounds he worked himself ill for! Oh, it's all sickening and damnable, and I wish we were all naked savages in a land where there wasn't such a thing as money.... I can't bear to think of it—it makes me want to go wild and fly at somebody's throat—anybody's—yours—Terry's—even Geoffrey's...."
I interrupted her then. I said quietly: "That's all very well, Helen, but you would have cared—years ago—even if money doesn't matter to you now. In fact, you did care—and that was why, in my opinion, you didn't go away with him when you had the chance. He was willing, but you weren't.... I'm not blaming you, of course. But it's rather unfair of you to suggest that it was I who stood in your way, when all the time it was you yourself."
She stumbled forward a little, as if all her body had slackened. After a pause she said slowly and not very distinctly: "If it's true—even if it's true—I couldn't help it...." It was as though she were pleading for some sort of mercy. She continued more sharply: "How do you know all this? Terry would never tell you anything, I know. Are you really clever enough to see into me, or was it only a lucky guess? ... Oh, things—things—as Terry used to say—what a curse they are when we want to follow our heart's desire!" After another pause she recovered a kind of cynical equanimity. "You were quite right," she said, "to smash up my heroics. I'm rather worthless, I daresay.... I married Geoffrey because he was able to give me all that a part of me craved for—charming and cultured richness—you know the sort of thing. Geoffrey always was rich—even before he made any money; he had rich ideas and loved rich things. Part of me married him for that, and I never knew there was any other part of me till I met Terry.... You do realize a little, don't you? I know you do—I somehow feel you do.... Not that I care very much whether you do or don't. I've made up my mind."
"For what?"
The abrupt question seemed to stir her. "I've made up my mind that—in certain circumstances—I'll take the short cut to happiness."