“Did you ever,” he said drily, “hear of what's called collusion?”
Gregory got up and paced the room.
“I don't know that I've ever heard anything very exact about the thing at all,” he said. “The whole subject is hateful to me. I regard marriage as sacred, and when, which God forbid, it proves unsacred, it is horrible to think of these formalities. This is a Christian country; we are all flesh and blood. What is this slime, Paramor?”
With this outburst he sank again into the chair, and leaned his head on his hand. And oddly, instead of smiling, Mr. Paramor looked at him with haunting eyes.
“Two unhappy persons must not seem to agree to be parted,” he said. “One must be believed to desire to keep hold of the other, and must pose as an injured person. There must be evidence of misconduct, and in this case of cruelty or of desertion. The evidence must be impartial. This is the law.”
Gregory said without looking up:
“But why?”
Mr. Paramor took his violets out of the water, and put them to his nose.
“How do you mean—why?”
“I mean, why this underhand, roundabout way?”