"But you'll have to do something about it, I suppose," returned Viola gloomily. She was making the tea, and I saw her hands shook.
"I believe you would like to go. It would be a new experience for you. You would go if that letter came to you when you were living as a bachelor, wouldn't you?"
"Possibly I might. But then, of course, when one is free it is different. Everything is different."
"Free!" murmured Viola, her eyes filling. "I hate to think I am tying you."
"It is not that," I said gently; "one does not want to do the same things, nor care about them."
"You wanted Veronica and didn't have her on my account, I am not going to prevent you doing this. You must go if you want to."
She threw herself into the easy chair with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The tears welled up to her eyes and poured down her white face uncontrollably.
"Dearest, dear little girl," I said, drawing her into my arms, "you are upsetting yourself for nothing. I don't want to go, I shan't think of going. I am perfectly happy; you are everything to me."
She leant her soft head against me in silence, sobbing for some seconds.
"Come and have breakfast," I said, stroking her hair gently, "and don't let us think anything more about it. If fifty Suzees were calling me I should not want to go."