My first intimation of what Frascatoni was about came from my wife. Not words, of course, but actions. She abruptly ceased quarreling, rebuking, reproaching, scoffing. She soothed, sympathized, agreed. She became as sweet as she had formerly been. I was puzzled, and waited for light. It came with her next move. She began to talk of going back to Europe, to deplore that scandalmongers would not let her. She began to chaff me on my love of a bachelor’s life, on my dislike of married life. She said with reproachful, yet smiling gentleness, that I made her feel ashamed to stay on. “Admit,” said she, “that you’d be better pleased if I were in Guinea.” “You oughtn’t have given me so many years of freedom,” said I. “You’d have been glad if I had gone on and gotten a divorce,” pursued she. My drowsing soul startled and listened. “I was willing that you should do as you liked,” said I. “Divorce is a matter of more importance to the woman than to the man--just as marriage is.” “And it’s a sensible thing, too--isn’t it?” “Very,” said I. “Godfrey, would you honestly be willing?” “I’d not lay a straw in your way.” “What nonsense we’re talking!” cried she, with a nervous laugh. “And yet there’s no denying that we don’t get on together. I see how trying it is to you to have me about.” “And you want to be free and living abroad.” “I wonder how much I’d really mind the scandal,” pursued she. “I don’t care especially about these New York people. And at the worst what harm could they do _me_?” “None,” said I. “They could only talk. How they’d blame me!” “Behind your back, perhaps,” said I. “Unless they thought I was to blame--which is more likely.” “You talk of divorce as if it were nothing.” “It’s merely a means to an end,” said I. “You’ve got only the one life, you know.” “And I’m no longer so _dreadfully_ young. Though, I heard that Armitage said the other day he would never dream I was over twenty-eight if he didn’t know.” She laughed with the pleasure we all take in a compliment that is genuine; for she knew as well as did Armitage that she could pass for twenty-eight--and a radiant twenty-eight--even in her least lovely hour. “No one has youth to waste,” observed I. “In your heart you wish to be free--don’t you?” “We are not suited to each other, Godfrey,” said she with gentle friendliness. “There’s not a doubt of that,” said I. “Why should we spoil each other’s lives? I conceal it from you, but I am so unhappy here.” “You can’t blame _me_,” said I. “I’m not detaining you.” A long silence, then she said: “Suppose I were to consent--” I laughed, she reddened, corrected herself: “Suppose we were to decide to do it--what then?” “Why--a divorce,” said I. “Can’t those things be done quietly?” “Certainly. No publicity until the decree is entered and the papers sealed.” “Does that mean no scandal beyond just the fact?” “No scandal at all. Just the fact, and some newspaper comment.” “And we needn’t be here.” “Not then.”