CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.
A VISIT TO ARTHUR.
“Are you getting tired of this sort of thing, Monica?” asked Randolph, about three days later.
He had fancied he detected traces of weariness at times—weariness or anxiety: he could hardly have told which—in the lines of her face; and he thought that possibly some trouble was resting upon her. He was very quick to note the least change in one he loved so well.
Her smile, however, was very reassuring.
“I think I should never be really tired of any life you shared, Randolph; but I like being alone together best.”
“I, too,” he responded, with great sincerity. “Monica, as we have done our duty by society now, shall we indulge ourselves once more, and leave the world to wag on its own way, and forget it again for a few more happy weeks?”
Her face was bright and eager.
“Go back to the moorland shooting-box, Randolph?” she questioned.
“No; not that quite. The season is getting a little late for remaining up in the north. I have a better plan in my head for you.”