"Not here, perhaps. In London, and I might go to Paris, after the show opens. You ought to have a year at least, Jon, and see the world."
"Yes, I'd like to see the world and rough it. But I don't want to leave you all alone."
"My dear, I owe you that at least. If it's for your good, it'll be for mine. Why not start to-morrow? You've got your passport."
"Yes; if I'm going it had better be at once. Only—Mother—if—if I wanted to stay out somewhere—America or anywhere, would you mind coming presently?"
"Wherever and whenever you send for me. But don't send until you really want me."
Jon drew a deep breath.
"I feel England's choky."
They stood a few minutes longer under the oak-tree—looking out to where the grand stand at Epsom was veiled in evening. The branches kept the moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else—over the fields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered house behind, which soon would be to let.