“I am provoked, but I know what I am saying.  A single difference of opinion?  Do you not see, Wilbur, that none of our opinions are the same, and that we look at everything differently?  Even your religion and the God you call to witness are not mine.  They are stiff and cold; you Unitarians permit your consciences to deaden your emotions and belittle your outlook on life.  When I went with Mr. Parsons the other day to the Methodist church, I could not help thinking how different it was.  I was thrilled and I felt I could do anything and be anything.  My mother was a Methodist.  They sang ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ and it was glorious.”  She paused a moment and, with an exalted look, seemed to be recalling the movement of the hymn.  “With you, Wilbur, and the people like you—­Pauline is the same—­everything is measured and pondered over, and nothing is spontaneous.  I like action, and progress and prompt, sensible conclusions.  That is the American way, and the way in which people who succeed get on.  But you won’t see it—­you can’t see it.  I’ve tried to explain it to you, and now—­now it’s too late.  We’re nobodies, and, if our hearts are divided, that’s fate I suppose.  It’s a very cruel fate for me.  But I don’t choose to remain a nobody.”

Littleton’s expression as she talked had changed from astonishment to anger, and from anger to a sternness which gave his words of response the effect of calm and final decision.  “You have said so many things with which I do not agree, and which I should have to dispute, that I will not attempt to argue with you concerning them.  One thing is clear, both of us have made a horrible mistake.  Each has misunderstood the other.  You are dissatisfied with me; I realize suddenly that you are utterly different from what I supposed.  I am overwhelmed, but your words make plain many things which have distressed and puzzled me.”  He paused as though in spite of the certainty of his tone, he hoped that she would see fit to deny his conclusions.  “We have made a mistake and we shall both be miserable—­that must needs be—­but we must consider whether there is any method by which we can be less unhappy.  What would you like to have me do, Selma?  We have no children, thank heaven!  Would it be more agreeable to live apart from me and receive support?  A divorce does not seem necessary.  Besides, our misconception of each other would not be a legal cause.”

Selma flushed at the reference to divorce.  Littleton’s sad, simple statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark back to her experience with her first husband, yet she divined that it must be in his thoughts and she resented the recurrence.  Moreover, separation, certainly for the present, went beyond her purpose.

“I have no wish for divorce or separation.  I see no reason why we should not continue to live as we are,” she answered.  “To separate would cause scandal.  It is not necessary that people should know we have made a mistake.  I shall merely feel more free now to live my own life—­and there is no telling that you may not some day see things from my point of view and sympathize with me more.”  She uttered the last words with a mixture of pathos and bright solicitation.