She did not speak. Anthony looked down; he could not trust himself to meet those eyes.
“And so now,” he said, “I’ll go.” He turned to the door.
There came a voice from behind him.
“But—but”—it stammered deliciously —“but please, I don’t want you to go. Please will you come back.”
2
“On Saturday,” said Anthony in his lady’s ear—one chair held them both—“on Saturday we leave this England. Before I’m wanted at this unpleasant trial a fortnight or three weeks will elapse, if I know anything of English justice. In that time, lady, we will paint a girdle of colour about the earth—or some of it at least.” His clasp tightened about her shoulders. “Shall we? Shall we? I want to take you away, right away! I want to show you places you’ve never seen before though you may have been in them many times. Where shall it be? Paris? Brittany? Sicily? Madrid? Any’ll be a better heaven than is really possible.”
To their ears came the hum of a car. As they listened, it grew louder; and yet louder. The car swept up the drive; halted. Down the stairs and past the door of the drawing-room came flying feet—Dora’s.
“Archie. It’s Archie!” Lucia struggled to free herself.
Anthony held her closer. “Never mind Archibald, Answer me, woman! Do we leave England on Saturday?”
They heard the heavy front-door flung open; then a cry of delight; then silence.