Elizabeth’s face had grown deathly pale. She was sensible of the dishonor of any proposal Clavering might make to her. All of the stories she had heard from the beginning about Clavering’s intention to divorce his wife rushed upon her mind—all of her own vague and haunting speculations for the past few weeks. She remained silent, but every moment she grew more agitated. Clavering was silent for a few moments, allowing the leaven to work. Then he continued: “Of course there is but one way to do this. I can get a divorce and then you must marry me. No doubt you have a lot of unpractical ideas about divorce, but let me tell you that when a man and a woman are indispensable to each other—as you are to me—what does anything on earth matter?” No one listening to Clavering’s cool and measured tones would have surmised what he was proposing to Elizabeth; nor did he attempt the smallest endearment, free as they were from observation, for the fog grew denser every moment and the little park was wholly deserted except for themselves. At his last remarks Elizabeth attempted some faint protest, which went unheeded by Clavering, who spoke again: “People call me a successful man. So I am, with money, politics, cards, and horses. But I have no luck with women. First, I married before I was twenty–one—cursed folly that it was! You have seen my wife—I’ll say no more. Then, my eldest and youngest daughters—well, they are like me in some ways, that’s enough. Élise has been through the divorce court. It cost me something like fifty thousand dollars to keep the truth about her from coming out. Lydia will go the same way. My best plan with them will be to marry them to men who will get the upper hand of them—keep a tight rein over them. So far, I haven’t succeeded; and I am seriously considering giving them each a handsome fortune, marrying them to foreigners, and getting them out of the country.” Elizabeth’s pale face had grown red while Clavering was speaking. He was close enough to see it, even by the uncertain light that penetrated the mist. “You think I’m a brute, eh? No, on the contrary I have a strong hankering after decency in my womenkind.” “Your daughter Anne—” Elizabeth spoke falteringly. “Ah, yes, bad luck again. Anne has twice the sense of her sisters, is really more attractive and is perfectly certain to behave herself. But she is on her mother’s side, and if—or when—I do get a divorce, I shall have to fight her, and she is the only one of my children whose opposition would amount to anything. You know what a Miss Nancy Reginald is.” “But—but—how can you get a divorce if Mrs. Clavering—“