On a certain spring evening, when our two young people were alone together, Clem said abruptly, and apropos to nothing which had gone before, "I don't think, dearest, that if you were to try till to-morrow you could guess what I am going to do next week."
"In that case it would be foolish of me to try. But, of course, you will experience a little sense of injury if, after this preliminary flourish on your part, I omit to ask you what it is that you purpose doing."
"On Tuesday next I shall leave home for a fortnight's holiday."
"Oh!" a little dubiously. "I was not aware that you are out of health--you don't look it--and if you are fagged or worried with overwork, you have kept your secret very carefully."
Clem tugged at his moustache and broke into a laugh.
"I was never better in my life than at this moment; and as for overwork, if I had fifty more patients on my hands than I have, you would not hear a murmur of complaint."
"But what about such patients as you have on your hands? Are you going to give them a chance of recovering while you are away?"
"Not likely; that would never do. A friend of mine, Vallance by name, who happens just now to be on the lookout for a practice of his own, has offered to come and physic them during my absence."
"Well, I hope you will have fine weather and enjoy yourself, although the majority of people, who, of course, don't know better, generally defer their holidays till July or August."
"I am quite aware that you are dying to ask me my reasons for going away at this time of year, only your pride won't let you do so."