"I might go to please myself.

But what's the good of talking about it when you know I can't." "Well, if you'd rather wait, there's the Riviera"-- he colored violently--"would that do for you ?" "Yes; I think it _would_ 'do' for me--just about." "Well--anywhere then.

If I'm well enough to go to the Riviera, I'm--" "You're not well enough to go to the Riviera." "What makes you think that ?" she asked gravely.
He looked away and muttered something about "Thompson," and "the journey." Again that look of agonized comprehension! She said nothing.

She knew that he had lied.

Ah, to what pitiful shifts she had driven him! He hurried off to his appointment, and she lay on her couch by the window with clenched hands and closed eyelids.