Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching the flowers.
“No!” she said. “Is it a joke? Or malice?”
He paused before he answered:
“Neither, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy.”
Connie went on with her flowers.
“I had a letter from Father this morning,” she said. “He wants to know if I am aware he has accepted Sir Alexander Cooper’s invitation for me for July and August, to the Villa Esmeralda in Venice.”
“July and August?” said Clifford.
“Oh, I wouldn’t stay all that time. Are you sure you wouldn’t come?”
“I won’t travel abroad,” said Clifford promptly.
She took her flowers to the window.
“Do you mind if I go?” she said. “You know it was promised, for this summer.”
“For how long would you go?”
“Perhaps three weeks.”
There was silence for a time.
“Well,” said Clifford slowly, and a little gloomily. “I suppose I could stand it for three weeks: if I were absolutely sure you’d want to come back.”
“I should want to come back,” she said, with quiet simplicity, heavy with conviction. She was thinking of the other man.