"Yes," he said, "it is time. Take my advice, and go."
"I'll go," she said, steadily, "the day after to-morrow. And I'll not go to Fortress Monroe. I'll go into the mountains of Virginia,—to a farm-house I know of, where one has forests, and silence, and nature—and nothing else. I'll take the children, and live out-of-doors with them, and read to them, and talk to them, and sew for them when I want anything to do. I always was happy and natural when I was sewing and doing things for them. I like it. Living in that simple, natural way, and having the children with me, will rest and cure me if anything will on earth; the children always—the children"—
She stopped and sat perfectly still; her voice had broken, and she had turned her face a little away.
Arbuthnot got up. He stood a moment, as he always did before going, but he did not look directly at her, though he did not seem to avoid her in his glance.
"It is the best thing you can do," he said,—"the very best thing. You will be thoroughly rested when you come home, and that is what you need. I will go now; I hear Richard, and I want to speak to him alone."
And by the time the door opened and Richard stood on the threshold, he had reached him and turned him around, throwing his arm boyishly over his shoulder.
"You are just in time," he said. "Take me into the museum, or the library. I want to have a confidential chat with you."
And they went out together.