“Well, not at my place, that’s quite certain. Besides, I’ve lent it to Lois and Johnny. I’d like to go to Galway, Ivor ... but maybe the journey will be too long for me. We’ll think about it....”
“And then,” she said, “maybe we’ll go back to Paris. Or Morocco—or just anywhere? What do you think, Ivor?”
“We’ll go back to Paris,” Ivor said, “or just anywhere, while you’re waiting for your decree nisi, Virginia. Or else the King’s Proctor will be unkind to us. And we ought to get the thing moving before we go for this present holiday—we’ll begin while you’re at the mausoleum, shall we? For it’s a long and boring business, this divorcing of husbands, with or without collusion. You’ve got to write that usual whining letter asking him to come back ‘and make a home for you,’ and then he’s got to write to you saying he jolly well won’t, and so on, for a long time.... It would be much easier, of course, if Tarlyon were divorcing you. The placards would say, ‘Viscount Divorces Wife,’ and there you are.”
Virginia laughed.
“He’d never do it, Ivor! And besides, he couldn’t bring it off, for the King’s Proctor would be on him in a minute, George is so careless. No, dear, we had better stick to the first scheme, which I’m sure he will agree to quite comfortably....”
And she suddenly shook her head a little, just a little shake. And she brightened.
“Oh, Ivor!” she cried. “I am looking forward to our dinner at the Mont Agel! Are you? We’ll have the room upstairs, and dear Monsieur Stutz will come and make us drink a very rare wine, saying with impressement and his fingers bunched to his lips: ‘You will hear the angels singing, Mr. Marlay....’”
“And we will, Virginia, we will!”