"Paris!" she echoes, flushing.
"Yes," he says, "I have been talking to the old doctor, and he thinks you are strong enough to have a little excitement now, and thinks that a tour in Paris would be the very thing to complete things. What do you say," he goes on, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice, but watching her with eager eyes, "if we start at the end of the week, that will give you time to make your preparations, won't it?"
"Oh, no, no——!"
"Then say the beginning of next," he returns, magnanimously, "and we will be married about Wednesday"—she utters a faint exclamation, and turns pale and red by turns, but he is steadfast—"and then we can have a gay time of it before we settle down."
"Settle down," she says, with a little longing sigh. "How sweet it sounds—but next week!"
"It is a cruel time to wait," he declares, drawing her nearer to him, "cruel—next week! It is months, years, ages——"
"Hush!" she says, struggling gently away from him, "here is uncle."
It is uncle, but he is innocent of wraps.
"Going to stay out all night?" he asks, with fine irony.
"Why, where are the wraps?" demands Leycester.