"Some months ago," answered John Temple, with quick emotion, "I would have given anything to have been so--now it is too late." "Why is it too late?" "It is useless to tell you; to tell you how our miserable marriage spoilt a young life." "But is it spoilt? And even if it is, I think you should show a little consideration for me. I am tired of leading the life I lead; I want someone to care a little for me. I wish, in fact, to be divorced from you." "Do you wish to marry again?" "Well, if you will have it so, I think I do. But then, you know, you must consider my position. You talk of a spoilt life, but you spoilt and wasted my youth." "It is easy to put it so," said John Temple, bitterly. "Well, you married me and left me, did you not?" "We agreed to part." "Yes, after you had made my life so unpleasant that there was no standing it. But I don't want to fight, or say disagreeable things. I really want to come to an arrangement with you, an arrangement by which you will benefit by being free; and I shall benefit by being free also--only you must remember you are a rich man." John Temple was silent for a moment or two; he was turning it over in his mind whether to accept her proposition; then he remembered he had not told Mr. Churchill of his marriage to Kathleen Weir, that he could not be divorced without this being publicly known. "Now I'll be quite frank with you," she went on, looking at his moody face. "I'll want either a lump sum down, or a largely increased allowance for swearing falsely and exhibiting in court the three handsful of beautiful hair that you tore out of my unfortunate head. You must pay, you see, for these little freaks of temper." "Your jesting is out of place." "Not at all, my friend; life has always its comical side. For instance, it is comical my coming here to make a sensible bargain with you, instead of talking of my broken heart." "I presume it is not broken." "No, it is not, thank goodness. It is a tough heart, and a man's inconstancy and changeableness will never even make a crack in it. For me to love and grieve now," and she looked at him straight, "a man must be worth loving and grieving for." "What is the bargain that you want to make, then?" asked John Temple, impatiently, a moment later. "It is this: You are a rich man now, and I am your wife, so I ought to be a rich woman also. I have a right, you know, to come here if I choose; to claim you before your new friends; in fact, to make myself generally disagreeable. But I don't want to do this. I have my own ideas of happiness, and it is not to force my company on an unwilling man. But if you will give me ten thousand pounds I will bring an action of divorce against you; I will show the hair you tore out of my head, and swear to a black bruise or two on my arms, and perhaps a little playful box on my ears. Mind, I am not jesting, though I talk as if I were." "And if I refuse your modest request?"