“Of course you did not,” she said, and a trace of weariness had found its way into her voice. “You would never understand what offended your taste. For a crime alone you might find excuse, provided it was sufficiently picturesque. For mere sordidness there is none in your eyes. You said it was not too late. I say it is. For years your refinement and your conscience have been at war. You have not had the moral courage to leave me, nor the manhood to help me—to help me to regain the self-respect I lost seven years ago. I am tired at last of you, tired of these perfunctory visits. They can end.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jasper.
“Simply that I don’t want to see you again. You can’t get a divorce—I have at least been faithful to you; there is not even cause for a legal separation——”
“Bridget!” he cried, shocked. “I have never wanted——”
She held up her hand.
“Please don’t protest, Jasper. Actions speak a good deal louder than words. You have hated these four yearly visits quite as much as I have. Your conscience has ordered you to make them. You have kept it quiet by a quarterly journey to Chiswick. Your refinement has shrunk more each time from the sight of me. The fact that Duty alone was urging you to it has made it more difficult for you. Now it is I who say they must cease.”
“You are my wife,” he said stubbornly.
She laughed. “You always had little sense of humour, Jasper, and now I think that little must have died. You don’t understand what I mean? That shows it is quite—quite dead. I am now going to take all responsibility off your shoulders by refusing to see you again.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I shall go away where you cannot find me.”