for a short time, and left him weak, but entirely rational.
"Arthur," I said on one of these occasions, "I have a proposition to make to you. We have never taken any journey together"—I was going to refer to the lacking honeymoon, but determined to avoid any allusion to the past—"and I should like to go away very much. Suppose we were to take a trip to America?" I watched his face. His eyes fell. He turned away his head.
"It is very far," he said vaguely.
"Yes," I assented cheerfully, "that is why I am so anxious to take the trip. I think a little sail on the herring-pond would do us good," I continued, with an abortive attempt to be funny, "Dr. White said you needed a change."
"When would you want to go?" he asked uneasily.
"Any time, dear" I said. Then, as if the idea had come to me suddenly, "I think it would be best to start at once. Suppose that as soon as you are able to go out, your first ride be to Liverpool?"
