She reddened under the insult.
“Now we'll see,” he continued venomously, “how far you can go alone.”
“Do you suppose,” she asked calmly, “that I am afraid of a divorce court?”
The question so frankly astonished him that he sat agape, unable to reply. For years he had very naturally supposed her to be afraid of it—afraid of not being qualified to obtain it. Indeed, he had taken that for granted as the very corner-stone of their mutual toleration. Had he been an ass to do so? A vague alarm took possession of him; for, with that understanding, he had not been at all careful of his own behaviour, neither had he been at any particular pains to conceal his doings from her. His alarm increased. What had he against her, after all, except ancient suspicions, now so confused and indefinite that memory itself outlawed the case, if it ever really existed. What had she against him? Facts—unless she was more stupid than any of her sex he had ever encountered. And now, this defiance, this increasing prudence, this subtle change in her, began to make him anxious for the permanency of the small income she had allowed him during all these years—doled out to him, as he believed, though her dormant fear of him.
“What are you talking about?” he said harshly.
“I believe I mentioned divorce.”
“Well, cut it out! D'ye see? Cut it, I say. You'd stand as much chance before a referee as a snowball in hell.”
“There's no telling,” she said coolly, “until one tries.”
He glared at her, then burst into a laugh. “Rot!” he said thickly. “Talk sense, Leila! And keep this hard-headed Dutchman for yourself, if you feel that way about it. I don't want to butt in. I only thought—for old times' sake—perhaps you'd—”
“Good night,” she managed to say, her disgust almost strangling her.