am in no hurry to go; but when I do get away, I want a perfect holiday—a holiday from shaving, and chimneypots, and every other ensign of respectability."
"You deserve the luxury of being disreputable for a time. You have not had a holiday for so long; only don't let it demoralize you entirely. Where do you think of going?"
"Not very far—not out of France, I think."
"Well, you shall have six clear weeks. You can get over a lot of ground in that time."
"Certainly I can; but I shall not leave till you have discarded your stick. The autumn is really a better time to travel than the height of summer."
It was the end of the third week in September before George bade his uncle good-bye. He left no address. In case of emergency, he said, a communication might be sent by Mr. Twisden to his banker in Paris, who would know where George was to be found. Otherwise, letters were not to be forwarded. His plans were too uncertain. The necessity of replying to his correspondents would spoil all the pleasure he anticipited from his trip. It would be no holiday if he did not get rid of quills, ink, and paper. Should he have anything very particular to tell, he would write, but Mr. Twisden was not to expect letters. His uncle said he understood perfectly; he had once been five and twenty himself. Then he shook George's hand, and bade him go off and enjoy himself.
