He had prepared himself over and over to answer such a question, but now he only hesitated and stumbled.
“Why—what makes you think anything is the matter?”
“I know there is; and I’m sure it’s my fainting-spells.”
She had come to speak of her seizures by this term, and George had accepted it, secretly glad that she had no idea worse than that of loss of consciousness.
“Why, of course I am troubled, so long as you are not well, but—”
“You don’t like to tell me what is the matter,” she went on calmly, but with an earnestness which showed she had thought long on the matter. “I dare say I should n’t be any better for knowing, and I can trust you; but I know you are worrying, and it troubles me.”
His resolution was taken at once.
“See here, Alice,” he said, “the truth is that you need to get away from Boston and have an entire change of scene and climate. You used to be a good sailor, and a sea voyage will set you up. I’m going to marry you next week and take you to Italy.”
“Why, George, you can’t!”