“Are we going back to Trevlyn, then?”
“Trevlyn is not ready for us; it will be some time before it is. Can you think of nothing else you would like to do?—of nobody you want to see?”
A flush rose suddenly into Monica’s face: her eyes shone with happiness.
“Oh, Randolph! are you going to take me to see Arthur?”
“You would like to go?”
“Above everything.”
“Then the thing is done. We will start next week. I talked about it to the doctor when I saw him, and he advised three months of entire quiet and seclusion whilst he settled down to the new life. After that, he believed there would be no reason at all against his seeing friends from home. I wrote again last week to put the question definitely, and the answer is entirely satisfactory. If you want to go, Monica, the whole question is settled.”
She came close up to him, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and looking up with loving gratitude and delight.
“You think of everything, Randolph. You are so good to me. It is just the one thing to make my happiness complete: to see my boy again, and make sure with my own eyes that he is well cared for and content with his life. I want to be able to picture him where he is. I want to hear him say that he is happy: that he does not pine after Trevlyn.”