He must go to
Scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest. And while
Betty was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her father to his
cure. She held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests,
he said with a shrug:
"Very well, I will then--if you're so keen to get rid of me."
"Keen to get rid!" When she could not bear to be away from him! But she
forced her feeling back, and said, smiling:
"At last! There's a good boy!" Anything! If only it would bring him back
to her exactly as he had been. She asked no questions as to where, or to
whom, he would go.
Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their
souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long
rows of adequate villas. Its commons and woods had remained unscorched,
so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that August, for
the sea. They still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or
flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea
in each other's houses and frequented the many churches. One could see
their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins
of children by reflection from buttercups. From every kind of life they
had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their
utmost to postpone it. They lived very long.
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