“But Mary, think of us—think of your family,” wailed Lady Alard—“what are we going to do if you don’t marry?”
“I can’t see what difference it will make.”
“It will make all the difference in the world. If you marry Charles and go abroad for a bit, you’ll find that after a time people will receive you—I don’t say here, but in London. If you don’t marry, you will always be looked upon with suspicion.”
“Why?”
“Married women without husbands always are.”
“Then in spite of all the judges and juries and courts and decrees, I’m still a married woman?”
“I don’t see what else you’re to call yourself, dear. You’re certainly not a spinster, and you can’t say you’re a widow.”
“Then if I marry again I shall have two husbands, and in six months Julian will have two wives.”
Lady Alard began to weep.
“For God’s sake! let’s stop talking this nonsense,” cried Sir John. “Mary’s marriage has been dissolved, and her one chance of reinstating herself—and us—is by marrying this man who’s been the cause of all the trouble. I say it’s her duty—she’s brought us all into disgrace, so I don’t think it’s asking too much of her to take the only possible way of getting us out, even at the sacrifice of her personal inclinations.”