"She has never had a real holiday by herself since she was married," the General said, "and my idea is that she should come with us directly your father gets back. The boys will be at school—Grantly at the Shop. There will only be the two little ones and your father to consider, and you could look after them. I'd like to take you too, my dear, but I don't fancy your mother could be persuaded to leave your father unless there was someone to see to things for him."
"She'd never leave father alone," Mary said decidedly; "but she might, oh, she might go now I'm really grown up. I should love her to go. Don't you think"—Mary's voice was very wistful—"that she's been looking a little tired lately . . . not quite so beautiful . . . as usual?"
"Ah, you've noticed it too—that settles it—not a word, mind; if it's sprung upon her at a few days' notice it may come off. If she has time to think she'll discover insurmountable difficulties. Strategy, my dear, strategy must be our watchword."
"But father," Mary suggested dubiously, "who's going to manage him?"
"I think," the General said grimly, "I think we may safely leave your father in Grannie's hands. She has undertaken to square him, and, what she undertakes—I have never known her fail to put through."
"It will be most extraordinary to have mother go off for quite a long time by herself," Mary said thoughtfully.
"She won't be by herself, she'll be with her father and mother; has it never occurred to you as possible that sometimes we might like our daughter to ourselves?"
Mary turned an astonished face towards her grandfather, exclaiming emphatically,
"No, Ganpy, it certainly never has . . . before."