Yet there were moments when she longed to ask him to tell her all, to let her know the worst that was weighing on him; but courage always halted till opportunity fled. So that one Sunday afternoon, when she was looking through the illustrations in the last _Traveller's Journal_, thinking him absorbed in _Spectators_ and _Outlooks_, she was startled to hear him suddenly begin: "If you are still hankering after this trip to the South, for which you are manifestly quite unfit--I think you ought to know this----" He broke off; she looked up. "Well?" she asked, impatient of a prolonged pause. "That it is at present absolutely impossible----" He seemed about to add something, then broke off again. "Everything that I suggest is absolutely impossible," she thought. Something in his voice and manner, added to a recent discovery of graver cause for alienation, of which more hereafter, and joined to the memory of recent bursts of irritation, told her that the end of all confidence and affection was come; nothing but mutual toleration and the bond of common everyday interests remained now; however deftly the lute might be touched, the music was mute at last. The little bickerings of comedy were over, the deep note of tragedy boomed heavily in the distance. She could not face it; there was instant need of flight and absence, of something to block out the misery of this moment of revelation, which must darken all their life. "It seems scarcely kind," she said presently, "to set yourself so fiercely against this small project of mine;" then quietly and lucidly she pointed out the necessity of doing something to recover her health and spirits. He replied that the time was unpropitious; that he had already suggested, with good reason, the need for diminishing expenses. "We began, it is true, with a clean slate after that plunge in hats," he said. "Oh, expense!" she interrupted, with the crimson the mention of those unlucky head-dresses always brought to her face. "Surely we have heard enough of expense. Besides," with bitterness, "it won't affect you. I shall manage the finance myself. No need to come upon the parish yet." He started as if stung, and got up and went to the window, his face turned so that the pain in it was invisible to her. "As you will," he said presently, in a hard voice. "No doubt you will regret it. But perhaps it is best. And remember this, Ermengarde, the worst possible economy is cheap travel." With that he went out of the room, leaving her, far from being elated at having gained her point, with the best mind in the world to cry. Chapter II An Innocent Very Much Abroad