"We'd never get him into the train."
"Take him in a car."
"Might do that," said Bobby. "What's the name of it?"
"Upton-on-Hill; and I'll tell you what, I'll go down with you, if you like, and help to watch him. I'd like to study him."
"I'll think of it," said Bobby hurriedly. The affair of Uncle Simon was taking a new turn; like Fate, it was trying to force him into closer contact with Julia. Craving for someone to help him to think, he had welded himself to Julia with this family secret for solder. The idea of a little hotel in the country with Julia, ever ready for embracements and passionate scenes, the knowledge that he was almost half-engaged to her, the instinct that she would suck him into cosy corners and arbours—all this frankly frightened him. He was beginning to recognise that Julia was quite light and almost brilliant in the street when love-making was impossible, but impossibly heavy and dull, though mesmeric, when alone with him with her head on his shoulder. And away in the distance of his mind a deformed sort of common sense was telling him that if once Julia got a good long clutch on him she would marry him; he would pass from whirlpool to whirlpool of cosy corner and arbour over the rapids of marriage with Julia clinging to him.
"I'll think of it," said he. "What's its name?"
"The Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill—think of Upton Sinclair. It's a jolly little place, and such a nice landlord; we'd have a jolly time, Bobby. Bobby, have you forgotten yesterday?"
"No," said Bobby, from his heart.
"I didn't sleep a wink last night," said the lady of the red hair. "Did you?"
"Scarcely."