said Jolyon. "It's queer, isn't it? You and I would tell
our stories to the world without a particle of shame; but our own boy
stumps us."

"We've never cared whether the world approves or not."

"Jon would not disapprove of us!"

"Oh! Jolyon, yes. He's in love, I feel he's in love. And he'd say: 'My
mother once married without love! How could she have!' It'll seem to him
a crime! And so it was!"

Jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile:

"Ah! why on earth are we born young? Now, if only we were born old and
grew younger year by year, we should understand how things happen, and
drop all our cursed intolerance. But you know if the boy is really
in love, he won't forget, even if he goes to Italy. We're a tenacious
breed; and he'll know by instinct why he's being sent. Nothing will
really cure him but the shock of being told."

"Let me try, anyway."

Jolyon stood a moment without speaking. Between this devil and this deep
sea--the pain of a dreaded disclosure and the grief of losing his wife
for two months--he secretly hoped for the devil; yet if she wished for
the deep sea he must put up with it. After all, it would be training for
that departure from which there would be no return. And, taking her in
his arms, he kissed her eyes, and said:

"As you will, my love."

XI.--DUET

That "small" emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened with
extinction. Jon reached Paddington station half an hour before his time
and a full week after, as it seemed to him. He stood at the appointed
bookstall, amid a crowd of Sunday travellers, in a Harris tweed suit
exhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. He read the
names of the novels on the book-stall, and bought one at last, to avoid
being regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. It was called
"The Heart of the Trail!" which must mean something, though it did not
seem to. He also bought "The Lady's Mirror" and "The Landsman." Every
minute was an hour long, and full of horrid imaginings. After nineteen
had passed, he saw her with a bag and a porter wheeling her luggage. She
came swiftly; she came cool. She greeted him as if he were a brother.

"First class," she said to the porter, "corner seats; opposite."

Jon admired her frightful self-possession.

"Can't we get a carriage to ourselves," he whispered.

"No good; it's a stopping train. After Maidenhead perhaps. Look natural,
Jon."

Jon screwed his features into a scowl. They go