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 divorce him and he is sorry for the unhappiness he is causing me. . .” Those terrible letters that the papers always publish. I never read them myself. In the school in which I was brought up, divorce lay beyond the pale: “Whom God hath joined. . .” “And then you will divorce him, won’t you?,” she asked. Really, you know, it was almost comic! She was afraid, after plunging herself in dishonour, that I might refuse to divorce Arthur so that she could never marry him.

“If he asks me,” I promised. “I am thinking solely of his happiness. He could not live with you unless you were married—I am not now thinking of Right or Wrong; it would cause too great a scandal, and he would have to resign his various public positions. I only hope that the divorce will not compel him to do that, for you will both be entirely dependent on the fees that he earns. We find it hard enough to live on his income as it is, by ceaseless scraping and pinching, denying ourselves little luxuries. . . I hope you are a good house-keeper? . . . Do you know, as soon as I said it, I realized what an absurd question it was. One look at her, one glance at the room, the least spark of imagination, any guess at what she was and what her life had been! An economical