Book II
34. Chapter XXXIV.
(continued)
It would be their last time together in this kind of
way: the boy was right. They would have lots of other
"times" after Dallas's marriage, his father was sure; for
the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort,
whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to
interfere with their intimacy. On the contrary, from
what he had seen of her, he thought she would be
naturally included in it. Still, change was change, and
differences were differences, and much as he felt himself
drawn toward his future daughter-in-law, it was
tempting to seize this last chance of being alone with
his boy.
There was no reason why he should not seize it,
except the profound one that he had lost the habit of
travel. May had disliked to move except for valid reasons,
such as taking the children to the sea or in the
mountains: she could imagine no other motive for leaving
the house in Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable
quarters at the Wellands' in Newport. After Dallas
had taken his degree she had thought it her duty to
travel for six months; and the whole family had made
the old-fashioned tour through England, Switzerland
and Italy. Their time being limited (no one knew why)
they had omitted France. Archer remembered Dallas's
wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blanc
instead of Rheims and Chartres. But Mary and Bill wanted
mountain-climbing, and had already yawned their way
in Dallas's wake through the English cathedrals; and
May, always fair to her children, had insisted on holding
the balance evenly between their athletic and artistic
proclivities. She had indeed proposed that her husband
should go to Paris for a fortnight, and join them on the
Italian lakes after they had "done" Switzerland; but
Archer had declined. "We'll stick together," he said;
and May's face had brightened at his setting such a
good example to Dallas.
Since her death, nearly two years before, there had
been no reason for his continuing in the same routine.
His children had urged him to travel: Mary Chivers
had felt sure it would do him good to go abroad and
"see the galleries." The very mysteriousness of such a
cure made her the more confident of its efficacy. But
Archer had found himself held fast by habit, by memories,
by a sudden startled shrinking from new things.
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