"And I'll tell you now that in case you persist in
affronting me by remaining in business in New York, I shall
be forced to procure a separation--possibly a divorce. And I
shall not suffer for it socially as no doubt you think I
will.
"There is only one reason why I have not done so
already--disinclination to be disturbed in a social milieu
which suits me. It's merely the inconvenience of a transfer
to another equally agreeable set.
"But if your selfish conduct forces me to make the change,
don't doubt for one minute, my friend, that I'm entirely
capable and able to accomplish it without any detriment or
anything worse than some slight inconvenience to myself.
"Whether it be a separation or a divorce I have not yet made
up my mind.
"There is only one reason why I should hesitate and that is
the thought that possibly you might be glad of your freedom.
If I were sure of that I'd punish you by asking for a
separation. But I do not suppose it really matters to you. I
think I know you well enough to know that you have no desire
to marry again. And, as for the young woman in whose company
you made yourself notorious before we were engaged--well, I
think you would hesitate to offer her marriage, or even,
perhaps, the not unprecedented privilege of being your
chere amie. I do you the honour of believing you too
fastidious to select a public fortune teller for your
mistress, or to parade a cheap trance-medium as a specimen
of your personal taste in pulchritude.
"Meanwhile your attitude in domestic matters continues to
annoy me. Be good enough to let me know, definitely, what
you propose to do, so that I may take proper measures to
protect myself--because I have always been obliged to
protect myself from you and your vulgar notions ever since
my mother and yours made a fool of me.
"WINIFRED STUART BAILEY."
With his care-worn eyes still fixed on the written pages he rested his
elbow on the table and dropped his head on his hand, heavily.
Rain swept the windows; the wind also was rising; his room seemed to
be full of sounds; even the clock which had a subdued tick and a most
discreet manner of announcing the passing of time, seemed noisy to
him.
"God! what a mess I've made of life," he said aloud. For a moment a
swift anger burned fiercely against the woman who had written him;
then the flame of it blew against himself, scorching him with the
wrath of self-contempt.