of fifteen active years—I find I see it with an understanding judgment. I see it as if it were the business of some one else—indeed of two other people—intimately known yet judged without passion. I see now that this shock, this sudden immense disillusionment, did in real fact bring out a mind and soul in Marion; that for the first time she emerged from habits, timidities, imitations, phrases and a certain narrow will-impulse, and became a personality.
Her ruling motive at first was, I think, an indignant and outraged pride. This situation must end. She asked me categorically to give up Effie, and I, full of fresh and glowing memories, absolutely refused.
"It's too late, Marion," I said. "It can't be done like that."
"Then we can't very well go on living together," she said. "Can we?"
"Very well," I deliberated, "if you must have it so."
"Well, can we?"
"Can you stay in this house? I mean—if I go away?"
"I don't know. . . . I don't think I could."
"Then—what do you want?"
Slowly we worked our way from point to point, until at last the word "divorce" was before us.
"If we can't live together we ought to be free," said Marion.
"I don't know anything of divorce," I said—"if you mean that. I don't know how it is done. I shall have to ask somebody—or look it up. . . . Perhaps, after all, it is the thing to do. We may as well face it."
We began to talk ourselves into a realization of what our divergent futures might be. I came back on