Meanwhile they concerned themselves busily, like happy children, with their projects of travel. It was a great step to book berths for Bombay by a January boat. They would then cross India, visit Burmah, the Straits Settlements, Australia, Japan, America. All kinds of Companies provided steamers; Providence would procure the accommodation. They planned a detailed six months’ itinerary which would take a conscientious globe-trotter a couple of years to execute. Before launching on this eastern voyage they would wander at their ease through France, see Paris and Monte Carlo, and pick up the boat at Marseilles. As the year drew to its close their excitement waxed more unrestrained. They babbled to their envious friends of the wonder-journey before them. Blaise Olifant, who, on his periodical visits to London, was a welcome visitor at their flat, was entertained with these anticipations of travel. He listened with the air of elderly indulgence that had been his habit since their marriage. “Don’t you wish you were coming with us?” asked Olivia. He shook his head. “Don’t you remember the first time I saw you I said I was done with adventures?” “And I said I was going in search of them.” “So you’re each getting your heart’s desire,” said Triona. “Yes, I suppose so,” replied Olifant, with a smile. There was a touch of sadness in it which did not escape Olivia’s shrewd glance. He had grown thinner during the year; his nose seemed half-comically to have grown sharper and longer. In his eyes dwelt a shadow of wistful regret. “The life of a hermit cabbage isn’t good for you,” she said. “Give it up and come with us.” Again he shook his head. No. They did not want such a drag on the wheels of their joyous chariot. Besides, he was tied to Medlow as long as she graciously allowed him to live there. His sister had definitely left her dissolute husband and was living under his protection. “You should be living under the protection of a wife,” Olivia declared. “I’ve told you so often, haven’t I?” “And I’ve always answered that bachelors are born, not made—and I’m one born.” “Predestination! Rubbish!” cried Triona, rising with a laugh. “Your Calvinistic atavism is running away with you. It’s time for your national antidote. I’ll bring it in.” He went out of the room, in his boyish way, in search of whisky. Olivia leaned forward in her chair. “You may not know it, but from that first day a year ago you made yourself a dear friend—so you’ll forgive me if I——” She paused for a second, and went on abruptly: “You’ve changed. Now and then you look so unhappy. I wish I could help you.” He laughed. “It’s very dear of you to think of me, Lady Olivia—but the change is not in me. I’ve remained the same. It’s your eyes that have grown so accustomed to the radiant gladness of a happy man that they expect the same in any old fossil on the beach.” “Now you make me feel utterly selfish,” she cried. “How?” “We oughtn’t to look so absurdly happy. It’s indecent.”