She was silent for a moment; sort of quiver passed over her face.
“I am not quite sure if I forgive you,” she answered in a low even tone.
She had not looked at her husband all this time, nor attempted to speak to him. She was labouring visibly under the stress of subdued emotion. Randolph believed he knew only too well the struggle that was going on within her.
“Monica,” he said—and his voice sounded almost cold in his effort to keep it thoroughly under control—“I am afraid this has been a shock to you. I am sure you will feel it very much. Will you try to believe that we are acting as we believe for the best as regards Arthur’s future, and pardon the mystery that has surrounded our proceedings?”
Monica gave him one quick look—so quick and transient that he could not catch the secret it revealed. She spoke very quietly.
“Everything has been settled, and I must accept the judgment of others. Results alone can quite reconcile me to the idea; but at least I have learned to know that I do not always judge best in difficult questions. Arthur wishes to go, and I will not stand in his way. There is only one thing that I want to ask,” and she looked straight at her husband.
“What is that, Monica?”
“I want you to go with him, Randolph.”
“You want me to go with him?”