"It seems a shame," he said, "that a family like ours, whose name has
always spelled decency, should find themselves entangled in the very
things their race has always hated and managed to avoid. And through me,
too."

"It was not your fault, Phil."

"No, not the divorce part. Do you suppose I wouldn't have taken any kind
of medicine before resorting to that! But what's the use; for you can
try as you may to keep your name clean, and then you can fold your arms
and wait to see what a hopeless fool fate makes of you."

"But no disgrace touches you, dear," she said tremulously.

"I've been all over that, too," he said with quiet bitterness. "You are
partly right; nobody cares in this town. Even though I did not defend
the suit, nobody cares. And there's no disgrace, I suppose, if nobody
cares enough even to condone. Divorce is no longer noticed; it is a
matter of ordinary occurrence--a matter of routine in some sets. Who
cares?--except decent folk? And they only think it's a pity--and
wouldn't do it themselves. The horrified clamour comes from outside the
social registers and blue books; we know they're right, but it doesn't
affect us. What does affect us is that we _were_ the decent folk who
permitted ourselves the luxury of being sorry for others who resorted to
divorce as a remedy but wouldn't do it ourselves! . . . Now we've done
it and--"

"Phil! I will not have you feel that way."

"What way?"