“Of course. Betty and I will be married at once, as soon as she gets her divorce, or you get yours.” But Prosper’s voice was hollow and strained.
“You will be married, Betty,” went on Jasper as calmly as before; “you, branded in the eyes of the world as an unfaithful wife, will be married to a man who has ceased to love you.”
“That is not true,” said Betty.
“Look at his face, my dear. Look at it carefully. Now, watch it closely. Prosper Gael, if I should tell that with a little patience, a little skill, a little unselfishness, you could win a certain woman who once loved you—eh?—a certain Jane West, could you bring yourself to marry this discarded wife of mine?”
Betty sprang up and caught Prosper’s arm in her small hand.
“He is tired of you, Betty. He loves Jane West.” Jasper laughed shortly, looking at the tableau they made: Prosper white, caught in the teeth of honor, his face set to hide its secret, Betty reading his eyes, his soul.
“I am entirely yours, in your hands,” said Prosper Gael.
Betty shook his arm and let it go. “You are lying. You love the woman. Do you think I can’t see?”
“It will be a very strange divorce suit,” went on Jasper. “Your lawyers, Betty, will perhaps prove your case. My lawyers will certainly prove mine, and, when we find ourselves free, our—our lovers will then unite in holy matrimony—rather an original outcome.”
“Will you go, Prosper?” asked Betty. It was a command.