Widdowson indulged his hope, though Monica herself laughed it aside, and even showed annoyance if he return to the subject.

Her temper was strangely uncertain; some chance word in a conversation would irritate her beyond endurance, and after an outburst of petulant displeasure she became obstinately mute.

At other times she behaved with such exquisite docility and sweetness that Widdowson was beside himself with rapture.
After a week of convalescence, she said one morning,-- 'Couldn't we go away somewhere?
I don't think I shall ever be quite well staying here.' 'It's wretched weather,' replied her husband.
'Oh, but there are places where it wouldn't be like this.

You don't mind the expense, do you, Edmund ?' 'Expense?
Not I, indeed! But--were you thinking of abroad ?' She looked at him with eyes that had suddenly brightened.
'Oh! would it be possible?
People do go out of England in the winter.' Widdowson plucked at his grizzled beard and fingered his watch-chain.
It was a temptation.

Why not take her away to some place where only foreigners and strangers would be about them?
Yet the enterprise alarmed him.
'I have never been out of England,' he said, with misgiving.
'All the more reason why we should go.