Wheatland got his divorce. There was no defence, for when Reckavile considered the matter with his family lawyer, he decided not to have certain letters read in court, and all the details published in the papers.
He wandered restlessly between London and his castle at Portham, not able to leave for Italy till the case was over. He wrote Carlotta, passionate love letters, but gave no address, for to her he was Hugh Desmond, and no other.
In spite of all the appeals made to him by Winnie in tearful and illiterate letters, he made no answer, nor would he see her. He told his lawyer to look to it that she wanted for nothing, and there the matter rested.
It was the day after the decree nisi had been pronounced when Reckavile went to his lawyer, Mr. Curtis, head of Curtis, Figgis and Brice, for a final interview as he was leaving for Italy the next day.
The thought thrilled him, as he pictured her whose whole longing was bound up in him, with no aspiration after title, or social position, and trust—absolute trust—that was the very devil.
Curtis was speaking.
“Of course, I don’t know what you propose to do, Lord Reckavile, when the decree is made absolute—it is hardly my affair, except—ahem—as the old family lawyer who knew your father, perhaps …” he stopped confused.
“Well?”
“What I meant to convey was, that if you made the lady an allowance as you are doing, it would appear sufficient. In your position I do not think an alliance would be desirable or even necessary.”
Reckavile’s face hardened.