the room and left him there, helpless on his sofa. For the first time I
felt no pity for him whatever--not so much as I should feel for a
crushed wasp who had stung me. I haven't seen him since. I don't intend
to see him again. But when I could get my thoughts in order after the
fire of fury had cooled a little, I wrote to him. I said that I was
sending for a lawyer, and would make some arrangement so that he should
want for nothing. I told him that he might stay at Gorston Old Hall as
long as he wished, but that I was going away almost immediately. Once
gone, I should never return while he was in the house. I have always
thought divorce very dreadful; but now I see how one's point of view
changes when one's own interest is at stake. If I could, I would
divorce this man, with whom my marriage has been a tragic farce. But I
have no case against him legally. I knew when I consented to call
myself his wife, that I should never be his wife really, and so, my
solicitor says, I could not even sue for nullity of marriage. It wasn't
I who thought of that. I don't remember having heard the term
mentioned, though perhaps I have, without noticing, when such things
seemed as far from my life as the earth from Mars. It was the lawyer
who brought up the subject, but added the instant after, that nothing
could be done, in the way of legal separation of any kind. He advised
me to send the man away from Gorston Old Hall, saying that I should be
more than justified. But I wouldn't agree to do that. For one thing, it
would be like physical cruelty to a wounded animal. For another
thing--even a stronger reason--the _temptation_ to send him away
was--and is--terribly strong.

"I could feel myself trying to justify the idea to my own soul, as if I
were pleading a case before a tribunal. I could hear myself argue that
it was unfair to let such a man enjoy the home of my Dearest, whom he
had already superseded too long. But I knew, deep within myself, that
my Dearest would be the very one of all others to say, 'Let him stay
on,' if he could come back and speak to us. In that same deep down,
hidden place, was the knowledge of my real reason for wanting the man
to go. To move him might easily break off the thread of his life.
_That_ was the temptation: to do a thing which might seem just to every
one who heard the circumstances, and to get rid of the intolerable
burden--to be absolutely free of it as I could be in no other way.

"Of my own sel