Ban looked at her, hesitant to be convinced.
“Yes; it’s so,” she asseverated, nodding, “After his outbreak in Paris—it was on our wedding trip—I gave him a choice. I would either divorce him, or I would hold myself absolutely free of him so far as any claim, actual or moral, went. The one thing I undertook was that I would never involve his name in any open scandal.”
“He hasn’t been so particular,” said Ban gloomily.
“Of late he has. Since I had Cousin Billy Enderby go to him about the dancer. I won’t say he’s run absolutely straight since. Poor Del! He can’t, I suppose. But, at least, he’s respected the bargain to the extent of being prudent. I shall respect mine to the same extent.”
“Io,” he burst out passionately, “there’s only one thing in the world I really want; for you to be free of him absolutely.”
She shook her head. “Oh, Ban’ Can’t you be content—with me? I’ve told you I am free of him. I’m not really his wife.”
“No; you’re mine,” he declared with jealous intensity.
“Yes; I’m yours.” Her voice trembled, thrilled. “You don’t know yet how wholly I’m yours. Oh, it isn’t that alone, Ban. But in spirit and thought. In the world of shadowed and lovely things that we made for ourselves long ago.”
“But to have to endure this atmosphere of secrecy, of stealth, of danger to you,” he fretted. “You could get your divorce.”
“No; I can’t. You don’t understand.”