“That is to say you think me spoilt.”
“Well, young lady, a cherry’s only the sweeter for having a little bruise in it. But you’ve come on finely in these years. To think what a detestable little prig you used to be!”
“Now you want to make me cry.”
“Cry away. There aren’t many women to whom tears are becoming, but I expect you are one of the few.”
“What a Sultan you are; but not very wise to flatter me there. Think what it would mean to have a crying wife!”
A wife! The words struck a sudden chill into me. My arms, strained passionately about the child, relaxed a little.
“Ira,” I groaned, “I swear that until this moment I have never realised my madness.”
She did not answer; but her eyes canvassed me with a sudden piteous wonder.
“That I should dream of such a monstrous thing—dream that any claim of mine to you would be listened to for a moment!”
She gave a heart-won happy sigh, and her face was summer again.