Mrs. Wilkins
could not speak. She was dumbfounded. The next Sunday was the day she
had meant to break her news to him, and she had not yet even prepared
the form of words in which she would break it.
Mr. Wilkins, who had not been abroad since before the war, and
was noticing with increasing disgust, as week followed week of wind and
rain, the peculiar persistent vileness of the weather, and slowly
conceived a desire to get away from England for Easter. He was doing
very well in his business. He could afford a trip. Switzerland was
useless in April. There was a familiar sound about Easter in Italy.
To Italy he would go; and as it would cause comment if he did not take
his wife, take her he must--besides, she would be useful; a second
person was always useful in a country whose language one did not speak
for holding things, for waiting with the luggage.
He had expected an explosion of gratitude and excitement. The
absence of it was incredible. She could not, he concluded, have heard.
Probably she was absorbed in some foolish day-dream. It was
regrettable how childish she remained.
He turned his head--their chairs were in front of the fire--and
looked at her. She was staring straight into the fire, and it was no
doubt the fire that made her face so red.
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