A tear fell suddenly upon the open page. She covered it hastily with her hand. Her husband's pressed her head very tenderly.
"Chris," he said gently, "I wonder if you would like to go away for a little?"
She glanced up quickly, eagerly, with wet lashes. "Oh, Trevor!" she breathed.
He sat down beside her on the couch. "We will go to-morrow if you like," he said.
She slipped her hand into his. "I should love it!"
"Would you?" he said. "I have been thinking of it for some days, but I wasn't sure you would care for the idea."
"But your work?" she said. "Those articles you wanted to finish? And that political book of yours? And the alterations in the north wing, will they be able to get on with those with you away?"
"The literary work must stand over for a week or two," he said. "I shall leave Bertrand in charge of the rest."
"Bertrand!" She opened her blue eyes wide. "But—but he would be away, wouldn't he?" Then quickly: "He would go with us, of course? You didn't mean to leave him behind?"
He raised his brows ever so slightly. "I meant just us two, dear," he said. "Wouldn't you care for that?"