She looked at him quickly. “Yes, dear.
Something about yourself?”
“About myself. You say you’re not
tired: well, I am. Horribly tired . . .”
In an instant she was all tender anxiety. “Oh,
I’ve seen it coming on, Newland! You’ve
been so wickedly overworked—”
“Perhaps it’s that. Anyhow, I want
to make a break—”
“A break? To give up the law?”
“To go away, at any rate—at once.
On a long trip, ever so far off—away from
everything—”
He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt
to speak with the indifference of a man who longs
for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it.
Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated.
“Away from everything—” he repeated.
“Ever so far? Where, for instance?”
she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. India—or
Japan.”
She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin
propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly
hovering over him.
“As far as that? But I’m afraid
you can’t, dear . . .” she said in an
unsteady voice. “Not unless you’ll
take me with you.” And then, as he was
silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched
that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer
on his brain: “That is, if the doctors
will let me go . . . but I’m afraid they won’t.
For you see, Newland, I’ve been sure since this
morning of something I’ve been so longing and
hoping for—”
He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank
down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his
knee.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, holding her to
him while his cold hand stroked her hair.
There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled
with strident laughter; then May freed herself from
his arms and stood up.
“You didn’t guess—?”
“Yes—I; no. That is, of course
I hoped—”
They looked at each other for an instant and again
fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked
abruptly: “Have you told any one else?”
“Only Mamma and your mother.” She
paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing
up to her forehead: “That is—and
Ellen. You know I told you we’d had a
long talk one afternoon—and how dear she
was to me.”
“Ah—” said Archer, his heart
stopping.
He felt that his wife was watching him intently.
“Did you mind my telling her first, Newland?”
“Mind? Why should I?” He made a
last effort to collect himself. “But that
was a fortnight ago, wasn’t it? I thought
you said you weren’t sure till today.”
Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.
“No; I wasn’t sure then—but
I told her I was. And you see I was right!”
she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory.
Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library
in East Thirty-ninth Street.
