“To-morrow, if you will permit me.”
“Had you not better defer it a week, or ten days—until the first of April, for instance: all-fools’-day would be a ‘marvellous proper’ one for you to go, and me to speed you on such an expedition.”
Marguerite laughed strangely.
“Will you allow me to ask you one question, my love? Where do you wish to go?”
“Gipsying.”
“Gipsying?”
“‘Aye, my good lord.’”
“Oh, yes; I remember! Marguerite, let me tell you seriously that I cannot consent to your wish.”
“You do not mean to say that you refuse to let me go?” exclaimed Marguerite, all her assumed lightness vanishing in fear.
“Let us understand each other. You desire my consent that you shall leave home for one month, without explaining whither or wherefore you go?”