"Ah, but you don't mean that! you were too fond of her to mean it. She'll live to repent it, you may be certain—the Lord will bring it home to her. Oh, how could she do it! You don't—you don't intend to have a divorce?"
"Naturally I intend it. What else do you propose?"
"Oh, I don't know," she quavered, rocking herself to and fro, and smearing the tears down her cheeks with a forefinger in a black silk glove; "but the disgrace! And all Lavender Street to read about it! Ah, you won't divorce her, Mr. Heriot? It would be so dreadful!"
"Don't you want to see the man marry her?"
"How 'marry her'?" she asked vaguely. "Oh, I understand! Yes, I suppose he could marry her then, couldn't he? I'm not a lawyer like you—I didn't look so far ahead. But I don't want a divorce."
"Ah, well, I want it," he said; "for my own sake."
"Then you don't love her any more, Mr. Heriot?"
He laughed drearily.
"Your niece has ended her life with me of her own accord. I've nothing more to do with her."
"Those are cruel words," said Mrs. Baines; "those are cruel words about a girl who was your lawful wife—the flesh of your bone in the sight of Gawd and man. You're harder than I thought, Mr. Heriot; you don't take it quite as I'd have supposed you'd take it.... So quiet and stern like! I think if you'd loved her tenderly, you'd have talked more heart-broken, though it's not for me to judge."