“Yes.”
“Oh, poor Félicie!” Nathalie laughed.
“She does not care. All the vestments are going off to Madame Lemballe to-morrow morning, and she intends to embroider herself an evening dress. But the letter is delightful. So hearty! And he means to come again.”
“He will be more welcome than he was before. Nathalie, dearest,” his voice sank, “Monsieur Georges wants us to have rejoicings—something to mark my home-coming. How can one have a merrymaking over what grew out of misery and weakness? If it had not been for you the weakness would have cost me my life; and as it is, my poor mother is left a wreck. There is nothing to be proud of, though I hope I am thankful. What do you say?”
She clung to him. “Dear love, no! Not merrymaking. One can show one’s thankfulness in some other way.”
“Raoul will be a better man than I have been.”
“Never dearer to those who love him.”
“Even after all you heard in Paris?”
“Always, and forever.” There was not a shadow of hesitation in her voice, and when he put her from him and looked into her eyes, they met his without shrinking. She repeated the word “Always.”
“I believe you,” he said, letting his head fall; “but you are different from most women—and most men. I could not have done for you all that you have done for me, or half of it.”