“In the first place, I’m not going to divorce you — you’re going to divorce me. In the second place, you can have every penny I’ve got. That’s my best offer.”
“That’s fine. That’d be just dandy. You give me every penny you’ve got after paying for the divorce, and I wouldn’t have bus fare. That’s a nice out for you. But what am I supposed to do?”
“You might go back to Topeka. You could make up with your sister, and live in that house your mother left her.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in Topeka, I wouldn’t speak to Betty if she was the last person on earth, and the cold little fish is my half-sister, not my sister.”
“Okay. Well, what did you do before we were married?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“As I recall, you had a job for which you were paid $37.50 a week. You lived on that, if not sumptuously, at least adequately. Since we’ve been married you’ve dwelt somewhat more comfortably, been nourished at least as well, and dressed considerably better than when you provided for yourself. To my great regret I can’t guarantee to continue this — this ‘standard of living to which you’ve become accustomed,’ I believe the phrase is. But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to work. I’ll agree to pay you a percentage of what I earn until you remarry, as alimony, and you’ll wind up much better off than you’ve ever been. Just don’t marry another writer.”
“I can see myself ever getting a plugged nickel from you once we were divorced.”
“You’d have the devoted assistance of every police force and court of law in the United States to aid you in getting it; one of their chief functions is to guarantee the unearned increment of divorcees.”
“Let’s stop kidding. If you didn’t have it, I couldn’t get it out of you, even with the police, the army, navy and air force on my side. And you’ll never have it.”