He went and asked about the train to the Hague, but only to satisfy a superficial conscience; for now he knew that they were both of one mind about going home. He also looked up the trains for London, and found that they could get there by way of Ostend in fourteen hours. Then he went back to the banker's, and with the help of the Paris-New York Chronicle which he found there, he got the sailings of the first steamers home. After that he strolled about the streets for a last impression of Dusseldorf, but it was rather blurred by the constantly recurring pull of his thoughts toward America, and he ended by turning abruptly at a certain corner, and going to his hotel.
He found his wife dressed, but fallen again on her bed, beside which her breakfast stood still untasted; her smile responded wanly to his brightness. “I'm not well, my dear,” she said. “I don't believe I could get off to the Hague this afternoon.”
“Could you to Liverpool?” he returned.
“To Liverpool?” she gasped. “What do you mean?”
“Merely that the Cupania is sailing on the twentieth, and I've telegraphed to know if we can get a room. I'm afraid it won't be a good one, but she's the first boat out, and—”
“No, indeed, we won't go to Liverpool, and we will never go home till you've had your after-cure in Holland.” She was very firm in this, but she added, “We will stay another night, here, and go to the Hague tomorrow. Sit down, and let us talk it over. Where were we?”
She lay down on the sofa, and he put a shawl over her. “We were just starting for Liverpool.”
“No, no we weren't! Don't say such things, dearest! I want you to help me sum it all, up. You think it's been a success, don't you?”
“As a cure?”
“No, as a silver wedding journey?”