“Pat, why not just hang up? There’s no hurry.” Lucia said.
“It always takes a long time.”
“Hello, Peter? It’s Pat.”
“Yes, I recognized your voice. How are you?”
His voice was quite _gay_.
“All right. I called up to tell you you could have a divorce, if you
still wanted one.”
A minute’s silence.
“Why, thank you. There’s no mad rush, though.”
“Oh—how’s Hilda?” (Lucia prompted that.)
“Very well, last I heard.”
What next? “Why don’t you come to see me, sometime?” (assist from Lucia,
also.)
“I might, sometime. What’s your address?” (He knew. I had written him,
but I told him again.)
“Well, we might have dinner, and discuss this divorce. . . . What’s your
telephone number?” I told him.
“Thank you for calling, Pat.”
“Good-bye.”
“Now,” said Lucia, “you’d better have what’s left in the shaker. I
suppose your afternoon is completely ruined.
“Heavens it’s four o’clock, Pat, we have to be dressed in fifteen
minutes. Are you very disturbed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, make up down here in my bath and we can talk.”
Lucia let her hair down, and started combing it swiftly. I began cold
creaming my face. My hair would take only an instant to do.
“I’m glad,” said Lucia, “my marriage ended—”
“What?” I asked.
“Long time ago,” said Lucia.