THE SPECIAL TYPE
"She doesn't!" he interrupted me, with some curtness. "She stands a thousand miles out of it; she stands on a pinnacle; she stands as she stands in your charming portrait—lovely, lonely, untouched. And so she must remain."
"It's beautiful, it's doubtless inevitable," I returned after a little, "that you should feel so. Only, if your wife doesn't divorce you for a woman you love, I don't quite see how she can do it for the woman you don't."
"Nothing is more simple," he declared; on which I saw he had figured it out rather more than I thought. "It will be quite enough if she believes I love her."
"If the lady in question does—or Mrs. Brivet?"
"Mrs. Brivet—confound her! If she believes I love somebody else. I must have the appearance, and the appearance must of course be complete. All I've got to do is to take up———"
"To take up———?" I asked, as he paused.
"Well, publicly, with someone or other; someone who could easily be squared. One would undertake, after all, to produce the impression."
"On your wife naturally, you mean?"
"On my wife, and on the person concerned."
I turned it over and did justice to his ingenuity. "But what impression would you undertake to produce on———?"
"Well?" he inquired as I just faltered.
"On the person not concerned. How would the lady you just accused me of having in mind be affected toward such a proceeding?"
He had to think a little, but he thought with success. "Oh, I'd answer for her."
"To the other lady?" I laughed.
He remained quite grave. "To myself. She'd leave us alone. As it would be for her good, she'd understand."
I was sorry for him, but he struck me as artless.
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