‘How long would you be away?’ murmured Nancy, at length.
‘I suppose two months at most.’
‘November—December.’
‘The second of those months you might be spending, as you said, away from London. Down in Devon, perhaps. I can’t blame your thoughts about it; but it seems—doesn’t it?—a trifle inconsiderate, when you think what may result from my journey.’
‘Would you promise me to be back by the end of the year?’
‘Not promise, Nancy. But do my best. Letters take fourteen days, that’s all. You should hear by every mail.’
‘Why not promise?’
‘Because I can’t foresee how much I may have to do there, and how long it will take me. But you may be very sure that Vawdrey won’t pay expenses for longer than he can help. It has occurred to me that I might get materials for some magazine articles. That would help to float me with the editors, you know, if it’s necessary.’
Nancy sighed.
‘If I consented—if I did my best not to stand in your way—would you love me better when you came back?’