This startled George and broke him up altogether, reserve and fortitude and manly dignity and all. He snatched her up in his arms with such impetuous haste that her slippers flew off and exposed little pink toes to the air, and enfolding her in a hug that went nigh to stopping her breath, burst into sobs like a hungry and beaten child.
CHAPTER XXV.
To George Lauriston’s infinite surprise and comfort, his young wife, instead of dealing him fresh wounds in his misfortune by lamentations over their altered lot, fell quite naturally into the woman’s part of helpmeet, and eased the wrench of breaking from his old career by an unwavering brightness and sweetness which woke in him the fairest hopes of what their life together might yet be. On the other hand, this sudden change from winsome wilfulness to still more winsome womanliness could not fail to rouse in him some anxiety as to its cause. Had she received any communication from her mother, either through the hateful Rahas or some other channel? Her secretive nature made it difficult to discover the truth on such points.
“Why are you so kind to me now, little woman?” he asked her two days after the memorable return from Norfolk, when their preparations for departure were already half made.
“Kind! Wasn’t I always kind to you?” she asked, not quite evasively, yet with more understanding than she affected to have.
“Yes, but not quite in the same sweet way.”
“Ah ha! It’s the pictures and the music and the sermons you’ve taken me to beginning to have an effect at last,” she said, not flippantly, for though she laughed her eyes began to glisten.
George was touched, but greatly puzzled.
“Have you heard anything from Sundran since she left?” asked he carelessly, after allowing an interval to elapse so that the question might appear to have no connection with what had gone before.
“No,” said Nouna; then, after a pause, she looked up at her husband mysteriously. “Do you know what I think?”