I lay in bed, and said, “I’ll fight this. I offered to pay the check for
what I did, and was told I need not. That’s that. I won’t give up Pete
to this woman. I know her better than he. First time he’s drunk and
comes in saying, ‘Everything spins, my dearest, but it spins so
felicitously if you let me put my head against your shoulder,’ and puts
his head there like a tired child, she’ll speak to him severely about
the evils of drink. She doesn’t know what he’s like, or what any
complicated person is like. And I want Peter, and won’t lose him to a
stupid woman like her.”
Next day she went home, after making the speech to me about my lack of
moral sense. Pete said to me, “You get your six months. Much good may
they do you. I’m taking a chance that you are telling the truth, for
once, about divorcing me at the end of them. It seems to be my best
chance to get rid of you, relatively swiftly.”
I said to myself, “This is incredible. But I must keep my head, and not
get angry. After all, he finds me desirable; he’s used to me; there are
things on my side. And I have six months.”
I worked; I bought pretty clothes; I kept my temper. And I found soon,
that Peter was never going to kiss me again—when he was sober.