For a moment or two David was happy. His large, fair face shone; he laughed softly as he drew Nanna to his breast. He was really as intoxicated with joy as some men are with wine.
“We will be married next week, Nanna,” he said; “this week–to-morrow, if you will. It has come to this: I must leave Barbara, and there is a house empty close to the quay, and it shall be our home, Nanna; for I have sixty pounds, my dear woman, and at last, at last–”
Before he reached this point he was sensible of some chill or dissent, but he was not prepared for Nanna’s answer:
“David, why do you talk of marrying? It is ever that. I will not marry.”
“Not yet, Nanna? Is it too soon? But why for a dead man will you keep me waiting?”
“I think not of any dead man.”
“Is it Vala? Vala would rejoice in our happiness.”
“I will not marry–no, not any man living.”
“Why did you say that you loved me?”