“Would it take long?” I reflected. “Let me see--if you begin action say within a month, the divorce would take-- I could have it pushed through in another month or so, and then--by next fall you’d be free.” “But doesn’t one have to have grounds for divorce, beside not wanting to be married?” “All that easily arranges itself,” said I. She lapsed into a deep study, I furtively watching her. I saw an expression of fright, at the daring of her thoughts, gather--fright, yet fascination, too. Said she in a low voice: “Godfrey, are you _serious_?” “Entirely so,” was my careless reply. “Aren’t you?” “I don’t know whether I am or not.... I am _wretched_ here!” “All you have to do is to say the word. We don’t in the least need each other, and mutual need is the only respectable excuse for marriage. And I must tell you, I’ll not stand for any more of this social nonsense that compels me to participate. I’m done.” She looked at me pityingly. Our season had been a brilliant success, yet I remained unconverted, coarsely unsympathetic. “If I should decide to--to do it--what then?” “Nothing. I’d go away. The rest would be for the lawyers.” She looked at me dazedly. “I’ll see--I’ll see,” she said, and went to her own part of the house. A week passed. Frascatoni sailed for home, sending by her his polite regrets at not having seen me before his departure. I waited, confident. I knew she had a definite goal at last, and, therefore, a definite purpose. Aside from the danger of frightening her back by showing my own eagerness there was the matter of property. I was willing to pay a good round price for freedom. I have always hated money wrangles; I had never had one with her, and I did not purpose to have. On the other hand, that is, on her side, she would have given me short shrift had it not been that she wished a slice of my fortune--and a generous slice--to add to her own. I’ve not a doubt that the fierce social campaign she put me through that winter was not so much for her own pleasure, though she delighted in it, as for goading me to demand a divorce, and, so, enable her to ease her conscience and to drive a better bargain. My seeming indifference, combined with her now trembling eagerness to be free and away, soon forced her hand. The break came on a Sunday afternoon. Life is so inartistic--that is, from the standpoint of the cheap novelists and playwrights with their dramatic claptrap. Here is how the grand crash was precipitated: Said I: “Well, I’m off for a few weeks’ fishing.” “You’re not starting now?” said she. “Day after to-morrow,” said I. “But I’ve made several engagements for you.” “Get a substitute,” said I. “No one will miss me.” “How inconsiderate you are!” “That’s pretty good--after all I’ve borne this winter.” “You are insufferable!” cried she. “Then--why suffer me?” said I coolly. “If you torture me much further, I won’t,” retorted she. “I think I’ll clear out to-night,” said I.