“What do you think, Turner?” I said, and told him the case. He looked rather grave.
“When would you think of going?” he asked.
“About the beginning of June.”
“Nearly two months,” he said, thoughtfully. “And Miss Connie was not the worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?”
“The better, I do think.”
“Has she had any increase of pain since?”
“None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that.”
He thought again. He was a careful man, although young.
“It is a long journey.”
“She could make it by easy stages.”