From under the silk curtains and awning of a window-doorway
at the end of the terrace, his wife issued and came toward him.
Her head was bare, and she had the grace and fresh beauty
of a young girl in her simple light gown of some summery
figured stuff.
"What do you say to going off somewhere--tomorrow
if you like--travelling abroad?" he called out, as she
approached him. The idea, only a moment old in his mind,
had grown to great proportions. "How can we?" she asked,
upon the briefest thought. "THEY are coming at the end
of the week. This is Monday, and they arrive on the
12th--that's this Saturday."
"So soon as that!" he exclaimed. "I thought it was later.
H-m! I don't know--I think perhaps I'll go up to London
this evening. I'm by way of feeling restless all at once.
Will you come up with me?"
She shook her head. "I can't think of anything in London
that would be tolerable."
He gave a vague little laugh. "I shall probably hate it
myself when I get there," he speculated. "There isn't
anybody I want to see--there isn't anything I want to do.
I don' t know--perhaps it might liven me up."
Her face took on a look of enquiring gravity. "Are you
getting tired of it, then?" She put the question gently,
almost cautiously.
He reflected a little. "Why--no," he answered,
as if reasoning to himself.
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