“I don’t know. I—I want a hiding-place.”
She saw tears come into his old, faded eyes.
“Hush!” he said. “Don’t-”
“A hiding-place. I want to travel a long way off and be quite alone, and think, and see how I can go on, if I can go on.”
Her voice was quite steady.
“If I could do something—anything for you!” he murmured.
“You fancy you are still speaking to the woman who sang, Sir Donald.”
“Would you—” Suddenly he spoke with some eagerness. “You want to go away, to be alone?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Let me lend you Casa Felice!”