"That was because Anyone Else wouldn't admit that he cared for me—no, not even to himself. And I couldn't force him to, though I did try. I knew we 'belonged.' But there was Peter and Mother and Margery Craven and Lady Cardew and everyone sighing over my hesitation, and at last it seemed the only thing to do to yield. Right up to the Wedding Voluntary I wondered if, perhaps, Cyprian might not rouse up and rescue me. But he only sent me a golden apple, and not a line with it! I began to believe that I'd mistaken what I knew was the truth about Cyprian and me."
He leant forward and patted her hand.
"What's finished is finished. The question now is to find the shortest cut to regularizing the affair. Divorce?"
"I'm a Catholic, you know."
"So? Most short-sighted of you. I thought it was just another dish Peter wanted to taste. But he, too, is going to set up a row of names, like ninepins, for me to knock down. Rude names that suit Biblical Royalty but not the sort of people one knows. Tut! tut! You were always a complicated couple. What of our self-restrained hero?"
"Cyprian? He—he is against divorce on principle, but..."
"Quite so! Quite so! Circumstances over which he has no control! By Gad, I'd take that line myself if you were the woman in the case!"
"Uncle Ricky! You've been a Christopher Columbus all your life. Don't you know one spot on this troublesome earth where Cyprian and I could have a peaceful holiday with the babies? He's had to retire, and without work and nowhere to go—Oh, don't you see we can't come to any conclusion while we are occupying the situation of living targets to Society's very natural curiosity?"
"Where on earth do you suppose you'd like to be?"
"Somewhere with sea and sands and open sky and trees and warmth and loveliness and ..."