“Algiers?”
“Same reason, and fleas as well.”
“Athens?”
“Too informing, and we don’t want any scandals—I’d be sure to meet a boy who shone my shoes in New York.—Here, give me the old book.—What about Avignon? We can start this evening and get there to-morrow.”
Through the gayety of the sabbath morning they made their way to Cook’s. While purchasing their tickets they almost came to words. He insisted that she would need a berth for the journey; she insisted that she wouldn’t.
“But you’re not used to sitting up all night. You’ll be good for nothing next morning. Do be reasonable.”
“I’m not used to a good many of the things we’re doing. I’m trying to save you expense. And I don’t think it’s at all nice of you to lose your temper.”
“I didn’t,” he protested.
“A matter of opinion,” she said.
When he had bought a guide-book on Provence, they walked out into the sunlight in silence. They reached the Pont de la Concorde; neither of them had uttered a word. With a gap of about a foot between them, they leant against the parapet, watching steamers puff in to the landing to take aboard the holiday crowd. She kept her face turned away from him, with her chin held at a haughty angle. In an attempt to pave the way to conversation, he commenced to read about Avignon in his guide-book.