They dawdled about the shrubbery, man and wife, arm linked with arm, looking at the new plantings one by one; she speculating how many years each tree would take to come to perfection.
“They will make a very good effect in three or four years, George. Don’t you think so? That Picea nobilis will fill the open space yonder. We have allowed ten feet clear on every side. The golden brooms grow only too quickly. How serious you look! Are you thinking of anything that makes you anxious?”
“I am thinking of Pamela and her sweetheart. I should like to make Lady Lochinvar’s acquaintance before the marriage.”
“Shall I ask her here?”
“She could hardly come, I fancy, while the wedding is on the tapis. I propose that you and I should go up to London to-morrow, put up at our old hotel—we shall be more independent there than at Grosvenor Gardens—and spend a few days quietly, seeing a good deal of the picture-galleries, and a little of our new connections—and of Rosalind and her husband, whom we don’t often see. Would you like to do that, Mildred?”
“I like anything you like. I delight in seeing pictures with you, and I shall be glad to see Rosalind; and if Pamela really wishes us to be present at her wedding, I think we ought to be there, don’t you, George?”
“If you would like it dearest; if—”
He left the sentence unfinished, fearing to betray his apprehension. Till he had consulted the highest authorities in the land he felt that he could know but little of that hidden malady which paled her cheek and gave heaviness to the pathetic eyes.
They were in Cavendish Square, husband and wife, on the morning after their arrival in town, by special appointment with the physician. Mildred submitted meekly to a careful consultation—only for his own satisfaction, her husband told her, making light of his anxiety.