"Phyllis," regardless of this taunt, "let me take you to the south of France."
"Oh, why can't I be let alone?" I cry, pettishly. "Why am I to be tormented every hour of the day? I hate dirty, foreign towns; and besides, I know all the journeys I could take would do me no good; but if I am to get no peace until I consent to leave the only place that pleases me, I may as well do so at once. I will go back to Strangemore."
"You mean it darling?" cautiously, and without evincing too much joy, lest in my pettishness I should repent and go back of my words.
"Oh, yes: why not? Rather than be perpetually told how obstinate and self-willed and sullen I am, I would go to Timbuctoo, or Hong Kong, or any other cheerful spot."
"You would not try a warmer climate first?" with hesitation. "You know Sir James spoke of—-"
"No. I will go to Strangemore, or nowhere. I have always had a fancy for it. Even long, long ago—how short a time in reality!—when Billy and I used to go nesting and fishing there, we thought it the sweetest spot on earth. I almost think it so still. Is it not odd that I should look with such kindness upon the scene of my greatest trouble?"
"Hush!" with a shudder: "do not let us think of it."
"Why not? I often do. It seems very far away now. She had her grievance, too, poor soul!"
"When will you start?" abruptly. "Next week? Monday?"
"To-morrow," with decision. "The sooner the better. If I die on me way," with cruel gayety, "blame yourself for it and remember you would have it so."