“I think in the second week of September I may be able to get away from Downing Street,” Bracondale said, as he sipped his cup of black coffee, for he seldom took anything else until his lunch, served at noon. Morning was the best time for brain work, he always declared, and mental work upon an empty stomach was always best.
“Shall we go to Saint Addresse?” suggested Jean. “The sea-bathing is always beneficial to Enid, and, as you know, the villa, though small, is awfully comfortable.”
“We will go just where you like, dearest. I leave it for you to arrange,” was his reply.
“I love the villa,” she replied, “and Enid does, too.”
“Very well, let us go,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements for us to leave in the second week in September.”
Enid was delighted, and clapped her tiny hands with glee when Miss Oliver told her of her mother’s decision, and then the governess took the child for a stroll around the rosery while husband and wife sat together chatting.
Bracondale sat with his wife’s hand in his, looking into her eyes, and repeating his good wishes for many a happy return of that anniversary.
“I hope you are happy, Jean,” he said at last. “I am trying to make you so.”
“I am very happy—happier now than I have ever been before in all my life,” she answered, looking affectionately into his face. “But do you know that sometimes,” she added, slowly, in an altered voice, “sometimes I fear that this peace is too great, too sweet to last always. I am dreading lest something might occur to wreck this great happiness of mine.”
He looked at her in surprise.