“My late wife is threatening not to release me,” said I.
He smiled curiously. “But she hasn’t done it yet?”
“Not yet,” replied I. “At least not up to eleven o’clock this morning,
New York time.”
“I don’t think she will,” said he.
“Why?” demanded I.
“You won’t let her, for one reason,” replied he.
“You’re as fond of your freedom as I am. And nothing on earth
could induce me to marry again. When women--English women--look
at me I see them fairly twitching to get me where they can make
free use of me. Yes--marriage has gone the way of everything else.
Business--finance--politics--religion--they’ve all degenerated into so
many means of graft. And art’s going the same way. And marriage--it’s
the woman’s great and only graft. Our women look at marriage in two
ways--how much can be got out of it, living with the man; how much will
it net as alimony.”
“You seemed rather positive that my late wife would not hold on to me?”
persisted I.
He eyed me sharply. “You really wish to be free?”
“I am determined to be free.”
“She’s a charming--a lovely woman,” said he.
There was doubt of my candor in his eyes. It is all but impossible for
a man rightly to judge any woman except her he has tired of or for
some other reason does not want and cannot imagine himself wanting.
The unpossessed woman has but the one value; the possessed woman must
have other values--or she has none. Armitage could judge Edna only as
female, unpossessed female. Said he:
“She’s a charming--a lovely woman.”
“Like the former Mrs. Armitage,” I reminded him.
“So--so,” conceded he. “But I’ve always believed you were a fond
husband at bottom.”
“Dismiss it from your mind,” said I. “You are hesitating about telling
me something. Say it!”
With a certain nervousness he yielded to his love of gossip. “Prince
Frascatoni--you know him?”
I beamed in a reassuring smile. “My late wife’s chief admirer,” said I.
“A fine fellow. I like him.”
“He’s visiting down at--what’s the name of the place your son-in-law
has taken?”
“He is?” exclaimed I jubilantly. “When did he go?”
“About a week, I hear.”
“That looks encouraging, doesn’t it?” cried I.
“It certainly does,” said he. “They say he was charging round town like
a lunatic up to a few weeks ago----”
“Two weeks ago,” said I.
“But now he has calmed again--looks serene. I had a note from him this
morning. I’m positive he’s content with the way the cards are falling.”
The change in me was so radical that Armitage must have been
convinced--for the moment. “If I only knew!” said I.
“I can find out for you,” suggested he. “Your daughter has asked me
down for the week end. I’ll sacrifice myself, if you wish.”
“I’ll take your going as a special favor,” said I.
“Besides,” he went on, “these Anglo-American menages interest me.
American women are so brash with the men of their own country. I like
to see them playing the part of meek upper servants. The only kind of
wife to have is a grateful one. To get a grateful wife an American has
to marry some poor creature, homely, neglected by everyone till he
came along. Even then the odds are two to one she’ll go crazy about
herself and despise him--because he stooped to her, if she can’t find
any other excuse. But a titled foreigner-- An American girl is on her
knees at once and stays there. He can abuse her--step on her--kill her
almost--neglect her--waste her money. She is still humbly grateful.”
“The worms have been known to turn,” protested I. For, while I could
not deny the general truth of Armitage’s attack I felt he was whipped
too far by bitterness that he, for lack of a title, could not command
what these inferior men with titles had offered to them without the
bother of asking.
“Not a worm,” declared he. “No American woman ever divorced a title
unless she was either in terror of her life or in terror of being
robbed to the last penny and kicked out.”
“Thank God all our women aren’t title crazy,” said I.
“How do you know they aren’t?” retorted he. “Do you know one who has
been tempted and has resisted?”